An Interesting Problem
by aelitaheiderich
Summary: After a year of constant work, a secret society takes it upon themselves to save Sherlock from running himself into the ground. He is kidnapped and kept under guard so he will recuperate, but the great detective's mind won't allow him to take this lying down.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

The sound of a door opening brought him out of a sleep as deep as death. How long he'd been out he couldn't say, but judging from his dry mouth, foggy head, and raging thirst, the time he'd spent asleep could well exceed twenty-four hours. He cracked open gummy eyes and winced as light pierced his brain. Somehow, he found the strength to groan. "John?"

"Afraid not, sir," someone said.

The cheery voice lanced through his head and made him consider murder. Any jury would find the homicide justifiable. "Who?"

"Call me Halmsley, sir," the man said, moving to where Sherlock could see him. "I'm the house steward and personal assistant to your host."

"My what?" He understood the words, but their context did not make sense. "I was...not here. I was...Baker Street! I was in Baker Street, walking toward my front door..." Then what happened? He couldn't remember. That wasn't like him. "How did I get here?"

"The master brought you in night before last," Halmsley said, taking hold of Sherlock's shoulders and helping him sit up. He placed another pillow behind his head and turned to the bedside table. Sherlock watched as he poured a cup of tea. The entire service on that silver tray screamed "Herend" and "money." Interesting. Milk and sugar were added and Sherlock took the cup and saucer held out to him. "To get your feet under you, sir."

Sherlock held the cup and looked at Halmsley. "I'm curious, Halmsley. Just who is...your master? Did he tell you why I've been brought here?"

"He did," Halmsley said, turning toward a door on the right. "I'll draw you a bath, sir. You'll feel much more the thing once you've washed up." Halmsley disappeared through the door and a moment later he could hear water running. Sherlock looked around the room, hoping to get some idea of just who his kidnapper was. The room was luxurious with cherry paneling, a Turkey carpet, fine brocade upholstery on the mahogany furniture, and the bed itself was a sybaritic pleasure with Egyptian cotton sheets and a down comforter and pillows.

Holmes set the tea aside and levered himself up, hating the feeling of moving through quicksand. By this point he'd had plenty of evidence to let him know that he'd been drugged, and whatever he'd been given was the absolute worst thing he could ever remember having. "Weak as a kitten" didn't begin to describe how he felt. Because of the fog he was in, it took about two or three steps for him to realize that he was in excruciating pain. The pain made his left leg buckle and he collapsed, knocking the bedside table and its tea service over with enough of a crash to wake the dead.

Halmsley rushed out of the bathroom, surprise and shock all over his face. "Oh, dear, sir," he said, helping Holmes back up onto the bed. "I wish you'd have let me know you were trying to get up. Are you all right?"

"My foot," Sherlock gasped, staring down at the foot that was wrapped with a bandage. Why hadn't he noticed before? "What the blazes happened?"

"Ah," Halmsley said. "That was done the night you were brought in. You tried to fight them off, you see, and the master feels that you might have cracked one or two bones in your foot. Maybe three, perhaps, and of course, there's a great deal of bruising. With some rest, you'll be right as rain in no time."

"Was I trying to fight off some friends of your master's?" Holmes demanded.

"Employees," Halmsley corrected, slipping back into the bathroom and shutting off the water. "The master doubted that you would accept an invitation of your own accord, so he sent some of his employees to pick you up. I have to admit that the master was impressed; you managed to give each one of them a black eye, one man lost a tooth, another man has a broken hand, and another man will not say just how he received his particular injury. Well done, sir."

"I must be slipping," Holmes said snarkily. He'd suspected kidnapping earlier, but now he had confirmation.

"Perhaps you were having an off day," Halmsley said, coming back to Sherlock's side. "Now, if you are ready, I'll help you to your bath and get you some clothes. A pair of pajama pants does not an outfit make."

"What if I don't want a bath?" Sherlock demanded, pushing away Halmsley's hands. "What if I want to call someone?"

"If you can find a telephone, sir, you're welcome to make that call," Halsmley answered calmly. "However, I have my orders, and they are absolute. The master has ordered you enjoy a hot bath before your breakfast, so that is what will happen. I hope you understand."

"And what will you do if I refuse?"

Halmsley's smile was chilly. "You don't want to refuse, sir. That I promise you."

Sherlock looked Halmsley up and down and something about the man's stance made him realize he was more than a butler. That, and the strength the man had used in helping him up and certain calluses on his hands that could be felt through the gloves he wore told Sherlock that this man was an accomplished martial artist. In his present state, there was no way he could match him. "Very well."

"I'm glad you saw reason, sir," Halmsley said, putting Sherlock's arm around his shoulder and putting his arm around Sherlock's waist. "I have most of your weight, sir. Just go slowly."

Sherlock made his way toward the bathroom, taking small steps and letting Halmsley help him. Even that small walk was making his foot throb, and by the time Sherlock had used the necessary (with Halmsley leaving so he could have privacy) and made it to the tub he was wishing that John was there to take a look at his foot. John was a general practitioner and not a specialist in podiatry, but he was still a doctor and Sherlock trusted him far more than he trusted any other medical person. Halmsley helped him sit down on a bench next to the tub, added bath salts to the steaming water, and fetched a pile of towels. While he was busy fetching body wash and shampoo, Sherlock examined the bathroom. White tile and plenty of plants in pots, which, along with the steam, made the room feel like a greenhouse. The tub itself was a large, square Grecian affair, covered in tile patterned with dark green ferns.

"There we are," Halmsley said, placing the body wash and other accoutrements for bathing on the rim of the tub. "Would you like some help into the tub?"

"I'm sure I can manage," Sherlock said quickly. "Thank you."

"Very well," Halmsley said, turning toward the door. "If you need anything, please call." So saying, he closed the door. A few seconds later Sherlock could hear him gathering the scattered china and placing it on the tray.

Sherlock pulled himself to his feet, undressed, and slipped into the water. The heat felt good on his stiff back and shoulders and he sank into the water up to his chin. He began washing his hair and had just rinsed it when Halmsley appeared by the tub, startling him. "Gaaah! Where did you come from?!"

Halmsley grinned. "Rumor has it that I came from London," he said impishly. He was holding a carafe of water and he poured some into a glass. "I thought you would be thirsty, and the heat in here would make it worse. Care for some?"

One sip and Sherlock knew that the water was something his body needed desperately. He sipped carefully, finishing off that glass and another over twenty minutes. After that, Halmsley insisted he finish washing and then assisted him from the tub and into a fluffy terrycloth robe. It was like being wrapped in a giant towel and made him feel so cozy that for a moment he toyed with the idea of crawling back into that fantastic bed and going back to sleep. "What drug did they give me?"

"I wasn't told, sir," Halmsley admitted. "The master did say that you would be foggy for a while."

"Hmmm. Did he?"

"Yes, sir," Halmsley said, pulling clothes out of the wardrobe and placing them on the bed. "Here we are. Will these do?"

Sherlock glanced over the clothes. "Harrods?"

"You have a good eye," Halmsley complimented, taking socks and shoes out of the wardrobe. "I'll leave you to dress. I'll be back in a few minutes to take care of your foot, and then I'll take you down to the breakfast room, where you'll meet the master and your host."

"Looking forward to it," Sherlock said, hoping and praying that John was all right. "Ah, just one question before you go. My flatmate..."

"Doctor Watson? He's all right. He's still in Baker Street and according to reports, he phoned the police as soon as he realized you were missing, but so far, the police have found nothing, even with the help of the surveillance cameras your brother had installed on Baker Street."

That information didn't surprise him one bit. Knowing Mycroft, they would most likely be disguised as perching pigeons.

Halmsley left the room only long enough for Sherlock to pull on the pants, trousers, and shirt of the outfit and then returned to help him on with the jacket. He re-wrapped Sherlock's foot in an elastic bandage and eased on a soft black leather slipper that almost matched the shoe that Halmsley handed him to put on. Once he was completely dressed, Halmsley helped him back to his feet and handed him an oak walking stick.

"I'll help you to the elevator, sir, and then it's only a little bit to the breakfast room. If you need to stop and rest, let me know."

The rest of the house was just as opulent as the bedroom, and Sherlock kept his eyes open for any clues as to where he might be. Down the hall, into the elevator, out of the elevator, down another hall, and into a bright room made warm by sunlight on the cream-colored wallpaper. A sideboard on the right wall was covered with silver serving dishes and the table held two place settings of white china and silver polished to a shine. Because his foot was beginning to hurt abominably he sank into a chair. Halmsley took up a post in the corner, either to watch him or to make sure that he wasn't about to faint from pain. Sherlock had to sit on his urge to start throwing things. Whoever his kidnapper was, the man had better put in an appearance soon, or he would become violent.

His stomach growled, reminding him just how long it had been since he'd last eaten. He hadn't eaten much in the past few days due to a case, but now that it was over, he felt like eating. The aroma of the food on the sideboard was practically a torment. Well, he would eat when he got home. He wasn't about to eat anything here. Once he talked this idiot around and got to a phone, it would be only a little while before he would be back in Baker Street and eating...something. He wasn't sure what was in the cupboards or the fridge. Perhaps he should go out to eat. If not, then all he had to do was look pathetic and Mrs. Hudson would fuss over him and make him a full meal. She loved to fuss, especially if something had happened to him that she thought should be upsetting or frightening. He had a strong feeling that roast chicken was in his future, along with a jacket potato with butter and...his stomach roared and it was actually starting to hurt. When he got home, he'd eat for a straight hour and go right to bed to sleep it all off. That was what he needed.

The door opened, revealing a man about twenty years older than he, well dressed and groomed to within an inch of his life. There were lines around his eyes and mouth, showing his age, as did the silver at his temples. Piercing green eyes looked him up and down and the man smiled. The suit this man was wearing was every bit as expensive as the clothes that Halmsley had provided for him when he dressed. His hands were manicured yet the musculature was developed, showing a man who most likely spent a lot of time typing and writing, however, given the house and articles within it and the fact that his hands did not have the thick finger pads of someone who spent his time typing for his living, it was most likely that his typing and writing was a hobby or pastime that he invested several hours a day in. The man had a touch of sun on his skin but did not look like someone who spent his time in tanning booths, so the tan was natural. Given the recent weather, the man couldn't have gotten the tan in England, it had been far too cloudy. The man's shoes were Italian and quite new, and taking into account the decor featuring the Italian coast he'd seen around the house and what he'd observed from this man, he drew his conclusions. "Hello, there. I presume you are my host. How was your trip to the Italian Riviera?"

The man chuckled and clapped his hands, giving a slow applause. "Well done, Mr. Holmes. I expected nothing less. It is an honor to meet you."

"Please forgive me if I don't return the sentiment," Holmes said flatly, oddly feeling like a pet who had just done a trick. "Who are you and why did you have me brought here?"

"My name is Rowlesden," the man said, taking the chair across the table from Holmes. "I and my friends are admirers of yours."

"Admirers?" Holmes echoed. Of all things he'd expected to hear, that had not been one of them.

"Quite, yes," Rowlesden assured him. "We form an...elite group, if you will, of men who think and feel alike. We've watched your career with interest for quite some time."

This man sounded an awful lot like Mycroft on one of his tangents. If this man was a crony of his brother's carrying out his orders, he was going to KILL Mycroft. He would go to jail for fratricide, but it would be worth it. "An elite group?"

"Yes. I doubt you would have heard of us. All the secret groups that you might have heard of don't even know about us, and I doubt that your brother will know. He won't come storming through the door to rescue you."

"Mycroft would most likely thank you, if you've brought me here for a terrible fate," Sherlock retorted. "He won't be coming to rescue me. He's probably planning on sending you card or something to thank you. So, this elite group...what do you call yourselves?"

Rowlesden chuckled and slowly wagged a finger. "That would be telling, Mr. Holmes."

Holmes narrowed his eyes. Dimly heard the sound of Halmsley fussing at the sideboard, but he ignored it and tried his best to remain focused on his host. "You and your friends. Why did you all bring me here?"

"How many cases have you had in the last year?" Rowlesden asked, but then he held up a hand. "No, don't bother answering, we know exactly how many. You worked several cases concurrently, and this last case required the effort and constant attention of almost a month. For months before this last case you shorted yourself on sleep and food and for this past month, you've done that more often than not. You are pale, dark circles are under your eyes, you've lost a stone and a half in weight, and you would probably never admit it, but you've been feeling less than your best for several days now. Is this how the most celebrated detective in the world takes care of himself?"

Holmes fought down the ridiculous impulse to apologize. "If you've observed me for that long, then you would know that that is how I work," he reminded Rowlesden. "I give my all to the case."

"Mr. Holmes, if you continue on this path, then you won't be able to give much of anything to any case in the future," Rowlesden answered as Halmsley placed a full plate in front of him and his guest. "Ah, wonderful. Please tuck in, Mr. Holmes. I flatter myself that I have the best cook in England."

Sherlock stared at the plate in front of him. There were scrambled eggs, sausage patties, toast, and fresh fruit salad. Halmsley poured a glass of orange juice and placed it next to his plate and then a minute later he added a cup of tea. "I don't think I'm hungry."

"Oh, come now, Mr. Holmes." Rowlesden looked vastly amused. "You were kept under by a drug for forty-eight hours. For three days previous, all the food you had was a biscuit, a few crackers, and a mug of soup from a vendor's cart, as well as plenty of tea with sugar. You are hungry, I promise."

His stomach clenched. They had to have been watching him very closely to know exactly what he'd had. He didn't like what that implied. "I would like to make a phone call."

Rowlesden, in the middle of a sip of tea, looked at him and put his cup down. "Impossible."

"Why?"

"The lack of food has slowed down your brain," Rowlesden quipped. "My friends and I did arrange to have you kidnapped. We are not eager to have the police descend upon us and march us off to prison."

Sherlock resisted the urge to toss his orange juice into this man's face. "That would suit me quite well, but they would probably bungle the whole thing. You haven't gotten around to telling me exactly why you kidnapped me."

"That's right, I haven't," Rowlesden said. "Why don't you and I make a bargain? You eat a sizeable portion of your breakfast, and I'll explain why you've been brought here. How does that sound?"

"It sounds mad," Sherlock fumed, getting to his feet and storming toward the door as best he could with a hobble and a cane.

"Where are you going?" Rowlesden asked, once again sounding amused.

"London, you insufferable git!"

One moment, he was heading toward the door and the next, Halmsley was in his way. He didn't even see what Halmsley did, but the next thing he knew, he was back in his chair at the table.

"Take this as a warning, Mr. Holmes," Rowlesden said calmly, but cold steel coated every word. "I'll indulge you only up to a point. Now, as for your question...we had you brought here because we didn't like what we saw. The world's foremost consulting detective, not eating, shorting himself on sleep, engaging in destructive behaviors...That could not continue. You, young man, are a living treasure for all of Britain, if not for all the world. You've been brought here, Mr. Holmes, to have a rest. Think of it as a vacation. No cares or worries to weigh you down, nothing but all the time you could wish to use as you please. I'm sure there are projects you've long thought of pursuing, of books you'd like to read and so forth. Just ask for what you need or want, and we shall provide it for you."

Sherlock fought down panic. "If you've read my flatmate's blog, then you would know that my mind rebels at stagnation. A vacation like that sounds like my own personal hell. I'll go mad within a week."

"Oh, not to worry," Rowlesden said chummily. "There will be plenty of things to engage that formidable mind of yours. The only demands made on you will be that you follow our rules."

"What rules?"

"For the first few weeks, you'll eat what is given you and rest when you're told. One of my friends is a doctor, and I took the liberty of having him examine you when you arrived. He says that you are exhausted and very underweight. You need to eat and rest to get back your strength. Once he says you are fit, you'll be able to engage in more active pursuits. Do you understand?"

"If I refuse to do as I'm told?" Sherlock asked.

"Then we'll use restraints to keep you in bed and put a feeding tube down your throat," Rowlesden said pleasantly. "Either way, you will eat and rest."

Holmes felt his hands curl into fists. Who did this bastard think he was, kidnapping him and threatening him with a soft bed and good food and...? He stopped, his mind grappling with all this. Put that way, the whole thing sounded absolutely ridiculous. What would a jury convict him of besides kidnapping? Forced leisure? Imprisonment in luxurious surroundings? Torture by gourmet dishes? Hmm.

"For these first few weeks, you will be confined to the house and the east garden. Not too much walking. When you aren't resting or eating or amusing yourself, you'll be expected to have sessions with a masseuse to help your muscles stay in shape and to help you relax. I expect a visit with him once a day. Every week, you'll have a visit with the doctor to assess your physical condition and to make sure that your foot is healing as it should. If you ignore the doctor's orders, then you'll be confined to your room until you've learned better. Later, we'll have a personal trainer come for you to get you back in fighting trim." Rowlesden stopped and regarded him with a smile. "You know, Mr. Holmes, if you let your food sit for much longer, it will get cold. Do I have to have Halmsley spoon-feed you?"

Once again, the urge to be violent rose. Without a word, he picked up a piece of toast and took a bite. Chewed. Swallowed. He took a sip of tea and started on the eggs. Had some sausage. A spoonful of fruit salad. A mouthful of juice. Another bite of toast. More tea. "How's that?"

Rowlesden gave him a warm smile. "It's a start. Very good, Mr. Holmes, you're learning. Now, if you break a rule, I'll be very disappointed. If you try to escape or attempt to contact anyone, you will be punished, and you won't like what that punishment entails in the slightest. Just take my word for it."

All sorts of unpleasant scenarios rose in his mind. "If you hurt John or Mrs. Hudson or..."

"Oh, certainly not," Rowlesden ensured him. "We won't be doing that. Whatever punishment you incur, you'll be receiving yourself. Keep that in mind. If you've finished your breakfast, Halmsley will take you back to your room. He'll bring you a medication for the pain your foot must be causing you and he'll show you everything in your room that's been brought for you. You'll rest and amuse yourself, and then you'll have lunch, then a nap, and then the rest of the afternoon will be yours to use as you please until dinner. I will see you then. Have a pleasant day, Mr. Holmes."


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Hey, thanks for the reviews. That's awesome!

Chapter 2

When he woke up, he was furious with himself. He had not meant to take a nap, but there he was, waking up from it. He was even more furious with Halmsley, who had practically bullied him into bed, saying that he needed to have a rest after lunch. He'd been resting! He'd been resting all day! After breakfast and that disastrous interview with Rowlesden, Halmsley had bustled him upstairs and back to his room. Once there, Halmsley had insisted he take some ibuprofen for the pain in his foot. It took about 15 minutes of arguing, but in the end, Halmsley had won and he'd taken the blasted pill. Ater that, he'd been seated on a couch while Halmsley showed him the things that had been brought for his amusement. There was a television with 500 channels for him to watch if he wished, along with plenty of DVDs. There were tons of CDs and a stereo on which to play them. There was a laptop for games and any projects he wished to work on, but it was not enabled for Internet access.

"What if I need to research something?" Sherlock wanted to know.

"There is a computer with access to the Internet in the master's study, but you will, of course, be monitored whenever you use it. That won't be for a while yet, though. Now, I was asked to purchase some books for you and they are over here on these shelves," he said, pointing to the bookcase. "I hope I've chosen well. If you wish a specific book and it is not there, then please let me know which book you would like and I will obtain it for you."

He moved over to the desk and opened up the scroll-top. "These books are a little different. Mr. Rowlesden would like you to read something from these at least once a week."

The Rock of Foreboding sank into Sherlock's stomach. "What are they?"

"The master and all of his friends were beyond shocked when they realized that your knowledge of the modern world was so limited. These are general works on geography, history, literature, science, and so forth. They're hoping you'll glean a little something that you could put into your mind palace."

"Absolutely not," Sherlock said immediately. "My mind palace is not meant to be cluttered up with useful trivia, you know. If your master and his friends have even glanced at Watson's blog they'll know that. It would be a waste of their time to insist."

"I think your stay here will be more enjoyable if you went along with it, sir," Halmsley said. "Mr. Rowlesden and his friends can be quite insistent on certain things." He gave a smile, wished Sherlock a pleasant morning, and left.

The first thing Sherlock did once Halmsley was gone was grab the television remote and switch on the news. There was a report on about unemployment, but after a minute, there his picture was, with that hat. "No word yet on the kidnapping of Sherlock Holmes, the famed detective," the announcer was saying. "So far, police have no leads to the perpetrator of the crime, but they remain optimistic. Just this morning, police received footage from a security camera, showing just how the kidnapping was carried out." The screen switched, showing footage in night-vision green. He could see himself, heading towards his front door when he was swarmed by eight men. He put up a good fight but he was outnumbered and then he collapsed. A van arrived just as curtains parted upstairs, showing John shouting. As the van screeched away from the curb, John ran out of the house, shouting. He actually chased the van down the street, no doubt swearing like a fiend. As soon as he realized he could not catch the van, he whipped out his phone and dialed. Good old John.

The screen switched back to the announcer. "So far, there has been no word of a ransom demand or any sort of communication with Sherlock Holmes' abductors. An interview this morning with Gregory Lestrade of Scotland Yard confirmed that this kidnapping was the work of professionals." Once more, the screen switched, and he could see Greg, talking to a swarm of reporters and photographers. "...and so far, we've heard nothing. Judging from the speed with which the crime was carried out, these men were professional. We have all available officers working on this case and we do not feel it will be too long before we have a break."

The screen switched once more. "There will be more from Detective Lestrade later this evening," the announcer said. "This morning, our station cameras were outside 221B Baker Street, where they caught John Watson, Mr. Holmes' flatmate, good friend, and chronicler." A second later, there was Watson again, looking a bit dazed and as if he hadn't slept all night.

"Doctor Watson! How are you this morning?" a reporter demanded, sticking a microphone in John's face. John clearly hadn't slept if one was to judge by those dark circles under his eyes and the rest of his face looked haggard. "How do you feel about Mr. Holmes' abduction?"

"Oh, what a stupid question," Sherlock groaned. "How do you think he feels, you moron?"

"I feel rather sorry for whoever did it," John answered, his voice calm. "They'll have their hands full. Sherlock's not the type to take a kidnapping lying down."

That answer actually coaxed a smile from Sherlock. "You know me so well, John."

"How do you think Mr. Holmes is feeling now?"

"Oh, right now, he's probably angry. And determined. The only way they'll keep him quiet is if he's asleep. Like I said, they'll have their hands full."

After that, the news switched over to something else, so Sherlock switched off the television and thought. What he wanted to do, more than anything else in the world, was to get up and leave. Escape. Get away. However, he wasn't able to do that. Despite the ibuprofen, his foot still hurt a good deal and he still felt foggy-headed from whatever drug they'd given him. If he was going to make a successful escape, he would have to have a foot that didn't pain him and a clear head. As much as it galled him, he would have to wait.

He sighed and hobbled over the bookshelves, thankful for the stout walking stick. Without it, he would probably not be able to get around at all. He pushed that unpleasant thought away and perused the shelves. There were all sorts of books dealing with crimes, several of his favorites from literature, and other books dealing with history and biography. Not feeling in the mood for serious reading, he chose_ Nicholas Nickleby_ and curled up on the couch to read it. He found Ralph Nickleby's and Headmaster Squeers' characters instructive when it came to greed and corruption. Dickens was a master at observing human nature. He was deep in a description of Dotheboys Hall when his door opened and Halmsley was there, with lunch on a tray for him.

Rowlesden had not been boasting when he'd said that he had an incredible cook. Sherlock ate the potage parmentier and crusty bread, the quiche Lorraine, and French salad because he was expected to, but he had not expected to actually enjoy the food. The flavors complemented each other perfectly and, with the chocolate gateau and cafe au lait for dessert, he was left feeling oddly replete. Halmsley took the tray away and returned ten minutes later to remind Sherlock that he was to take a nap after lunch.

"I don't need a nap," Sherlock insisted. "I'm not a child."

"You are still exhausted," Halmsley reminded him. "Aside from that, you're cranky. You need a nap."

Sherlock glared at him. _Cranky_. The very word was irritating. No wonder children always reacted negatively to that word when it was said within their hearing. "I am fine. I am resting." He picked up_ Nicholas Nickleby_. "See? I have a book and everything."

Halmsley stepped into the room and closed the door. He came up to the couch and stood there, his face patient. "Mr. Holmes, this will be your last chance to make the decision on your own. Now, what is it to be?"

Remembering how the house steward had manhandled him at the breakfast table, Sherlock put his book aside and let Halmsley assist him to his feet. Once he sat down on the bed, Halmsley removed his shoes and his jacket and practically tucked him in. He drew the curtains so the room would be darker and then he sat down in a chair.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked. Didn't this guy want him to sleep?

"The master asked that I stay with you until you drop off."

Sherlock's mind worked furiously. "Was there something in my lunch to help me sleep?"

"Not at all," Halmsley assured him. "The master just wishes me to make sure that you sleep. I'll leave once you're asleep."

Sherlock had to once again fight down homicidal urges, so he turned on his side so that he was facing the wall instead of Halmsley. It would not be good to have the person he was sorely tempted to kill within his sight while those urges were still so strong. He shifted a few times to make sure that he was comfortable, and with a slight twinge of resentment he realized that he was enjoying lying in that bed. He had a lovely feather bed mattress underneath him, fabulous Egyptian cotton sheets wrapped around his tired body, and pillows that supported and cradled his head. He was supremely comfortable and he found himself wishing that he could take this bed with him when he left. Annoying, but there the thought was. Still aware of Halmsley's presence, he focused on appearing asleep. He shut his eyes to possibly fool Halmsley into thinking that he was asleep, but the next thing he knew, he was waking up.

Blast.

He got himself out of bed and to the bathroom and when he came back out, Halmsley and another man were there, setting up a massage table. "What's this?"

"The master has decided that you will have a daily massage. Didn't you remember?"

"Ye-es," Sherlock said slowly, feeling the impulse to hide in the bathroom rise somewhere in his chest. "I still don't understand why."

"To help you relax and keep your muscles in shape," Halmsley answered. "You'd best strip down to your underwear and pull on your robe so you'll be warm. You can't be massaged fully dressed."

The impulse to hide turned into full-blown panic. "I've never had a massage in my life," Sherlock said, taking a step back. "I don't think I'll like it."

For the first time, the masseuse spoke. He was about half-a-head taller than John and muscular, with dark skin and curly brown hair. "Not to worry, sir," he said. "My name is Gary, and I'll be taking care of you for as long as you need massage therapy. A good massage doesn't hurt and it will help you to relax, but it will be most effective if I can touch your skin directly. Massaging through clothes is difficult and can be counter-productive. If you are embarrassed about being without clothes, then I can tell you that it is not an issue for me, and after our first session, it will not be an issue for you."

He wanted so much to argue about that and opened his mouth to do just that, but a shift in Halmsley's stance warned him that if he didn't do as Halmsley had suggested, Halmsley was about to make it happen, whether he, Sherlock, wanted it or not. Swearing under his breath, he went back into the bathroom, undressed, and pulled on his robe. When he emerged from the bathroom once more, the table was ready and Halmsley had such a smug little smile on his face that Sherlock wanted to smack him.

With Gary's help, Sherlock lay face down on the table, and Gary helped him shrug his arms out of the robe's sleeves. A moment later the robe's belt was untied and the robe flipped down to his waist, baring the upper half of his body. Gary rubbed some oil between his hands to warm it and, starting at Sherlock's waist, ran his hands up along his back and across his shoulders. For the next few minutes, Gary kept that pattern up, but when he began working on Sherlock's shoulders in earnest, he tensed.

"Relax," Gary said soothingly. "I can't do you any good if you don't relax."

"Right now, I think this is as relaxed as I can get," Sherlock retorted. "I'm really not comfortable with all this." He didn't like being on his stomach with his back exposed. After making as many enemies as he had, having your back exposed was like setting up a target. It was best not to tempt anyone.

"We can come back to your shoulders later," Gary said, flipping Sherlock's robe up so that it covered his back again. A second later, the bottom of the robe flipped up, exposing his legs. Gary began working on the bottom of his uninjured foot and then his ankle, moving slowly up his leg to the back of his thigh. He switched to the other leg, being careful with Sherlock's injured foot, and then worked on both legs together, running his hands up and down Sherlock's calves. The tension that he'd felt in his right calf for the past week melted away and he could feel the rest of his body relaxing. He didn't even protest when Gary moved the robe again and began working on his shoulders, arms, and neck. After his hands were worked on, Gary helped him turn over to his back so his chest and abdomen could be worked on. The massage finished with a scalp and facial massage and he was so relaxed that he couldn't believe it.

"You tend to carry a lot of tension in your shoulders, back, neck, and jaw," Gary reported as he wiped Sherlock's skin down with a towel to absorb any excess massage oil. "You strained the muscles in your legs sometime in the past month, and the muscles in your feet and back have been working more than they should to compensate. You're a mess of muscle knots practically all over your body and we've made a good start on them today, but you'll need more work until they're gone. I'll be back tomorrow afternoon, all right?"

"I doubt I could stop you," Sherlock said, wrapping up in his robe once more. "Thank you, though. I didn't expect this to be...enjoyable."

"You're welcome, Mr. Holmes. Until tomorrow."

Sherlock went to dress and by the time he came out of the bathroom, Gary and his table were gone. Halmsley was still there.

"Not a word," Sherlock warned him.

"Not even if it's about John Watson?"

That got his attention. "Has something happened to John?"

"Not at all," Halmsley said soothingly. "The master did want me to check up on him for your sake, and I am happy to report to you that he is well. Mrs. Hudson has prepared him several hearty meals and fusses over him with copious amounts of tea. Other friends of his have checked up on him periodically throughout the day and your brother even put in an appearance. Dr. Watson is just fine."

Sherlock nodded, glad to hear that. "Any chance I could call him?"

"None in the world."

Sherlock sighed. "Could you at least let him know that I'm all right? He must be worried out of his mind!"

"I'll suggest it to the master," Halmsley said evenly. "He did suggest that you might want to go outside. It's a warm day and the east garden is a pleasant spot to sit and read. What do you think?"

"Sounds delightful," Sherlock said quickly before Halmsley could change his mind. He grabbed up_ Nicholas Nickelby_ and reached for his walking stick, but Halmsley surprised him by wheeling in a wheelchair from the hall. "What's that?"

"Your transportation," Halmsley told him with a smile. "Remember, you're to do a minimum of walking until your foot is better. I'll wheel you down."

Since his foot was back to throbbing, Sherlock was more than happy to be wheeled down to the elevator and outside. The path led straight from the door to a small flower and herb garden. A central grassy area with a tree was enclosed by raised flowerbeds, and in those beds were planted different herbs. He caught the scent of lemon balm, lavender, rosemary, and thyme, as well as the more subtle scents of mint and catmint. The plant lived up to its name since a large tabby poked its head above the flowers and stared at A lounge chair had been set up in the shade, and there was a small table next to it holding a mug of hot tea. In short order he was settled in the chair and deep in his book. His surroundings were beautiful and the scents on the air helped him relax. He couldn't think of a day more perfect for being outside. The air was warm, but there was enough cloud cover to keep the glare from the sun down, and a nice breeze kept it from getting too warm. He was just reading about Smike when a footstep on the path nearby made him look up.

"Good Lord, it's the man himself," the man said, staring at him. "Good to see you up and about."

Sherlock stared back at him. "I'm sorry, I don't believe we've met."

"Oh, so sorry," the man said, stepping forward to shake his hand, but he put a hand on his shoulder to keep Sherlock seated when he began to get up. "No, no, don't get up. You're to stay off that foot, remember? Call me Dr. Black. I'm the doctor who examined you when you were brought in."

Sherlock gave him an even look and fought to keep his voice calm. "I see. Are you all right with having your patient a kidnapped man?"

"The kidnapping was regrettable, but unavoidable," Dr. Black told him with a chuckle. "You probably wouldn't have accepted an invitation from us, so what else were we to do?"

"Rowlesden said the same thing," Sherlock admitted. "He was right, you know. I wouldn't have come."

"So, we were right to give you an invitation you couldn't refuse," Dr. Black said. He caught sight of Sherlock's expression. "Oh, don't worry, it was made to be impossible to refuse. You shouldn't feel badly because we succeeded. We're old hands at this."

That was intriguing. "Are you, now?" What other poor souls had been kept prisoner here?

"You aren't the first guest we've had, and I doubt you'll be the last. You might even come back for a second visit sometime in your life if you continue to not take care of yourself. You would think that Dr. Watson would know to look after you better."

_Nicholas Nickleby_ acquired the powers of flight and struck Dr. Black full in the face. In the next second, Sherlock was on him, punching his face and more than ready to tear his tongue out. Sherlock has his hands around his throat when Halmsley showed up and pulled Sherlock off of Dr. Black. He found himself pushed back into the lounge chair and told sternly to stay put. While Holmes wrestled with his urge to kill both men, Halmsley helped Dr. Black to his feet and brushed him off. "Are you all right, sir?"

"I'm fine, Halmsley," Dr. Black said, sounding winded. "I probably shouldn't have spoken so slightingly of Dr. Watson like that, at least, not while Mr. Holmes is still so on edge. Being on edge can make even the most even-tempered man impulsive."

_Substitute impulsive with murderous and you'll have it right,_ Holmes thought darkly. Arrogant bastard, talking in that manner about Watson. Once he made it out of this place, he would make it his personal mission to find out who this man really was and have his medical license revoked!

"I'd best get some ice to put on my face," Dr. Black continued, his voice wobbly. "I'll see you later, Mr. Holmes."

Once Dr. Black had gone inside, Halmsley turned on Holmes with a look that promised death. "Mr. Holmes, we should go back inside, don't you think?"

He wasn't given a chance to answer. Halmsley bundled him back into the wheelchair and wheeled him back inside, down the hall, and into the elevator. Once it had started up, Halmsley hit the emergency stop button and elevator ground to a halt. Sherlock waited.

"I don't know what Mr. Rowlesden will have to say about this," Halmsley said quietly. "He could be very upset. You may be punished."

Sherlock fought down yet another urge, this one was the urge to start shouting. "Mr. Rowlesden will have to deal with it. Should I not have thrown my book at someone's head? Could I have handled that better? Yes, I could have. However, I'm not going to apologize for it. I did not ask to come here. I was dragged here against my will. Do you really think I'm just going to go along with everything that I'm told to do and nod my head and agree whenever someone speaks to me? However I can and whenever I can, from here on out, I'm going to be fighting. You can warn your Mr. Rowlesden if you wish."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Halmsley didn't have to warn Rowlesden. Rowlesden was waiting for them as soon as they got off the elevator. He took hold of the wheelchair and pulled it away from Halmsley, actually pushing the butler back into the elevator so hard that he fell. Sherlock caught the look on Halmsley's face but didn't have time to think about it since Rowlesden grabbed hold of the lapels of Sherlock's jacket and yanked him to his feet.

"Dr. Black is the man who made sure you were in no immediate danger when you were brought in," Rowlesden growled. "I wanted to take you to hospital since you looked half-dead-there are several private ones that will allow you to admit any patient you wish for any length of time, you know-but Dr. Black suggested you be kept here in relative freedom. He did that for you, and the first thing you do is to throw a book in his face!"

Sherlock didn't say anything. Any number of pithy retorts were on his tongue, but he was quiet. Anything he said now would just make Rowlesden angrier and Sherlock had a strong feeling that his temper was a dangerous one.

"Dr. Black is a very old and valued friend of mine," Rowlesden continued, turning and hauling Holmes down the hallway toward his room. "He deserves your respect, Mr. Holmes, and if I ever see this kind of display of ill temper again directed toward him, you will spend the rest of your days here!"

"What?" Holmes gasped, the pain in his foot almost unbearable. Dr. Black had said not to walk, and here he was, being forced to keep up with a sadist who was dragging him down the hall.

Rowlesden opened the door to Holmes' room and all but threw the detective in. "Dinner is at seven," Rowlesden told him. "I'll expect you to have learned some manners by then, and I'll expect you to apologize to Dr. Black."

The door slammed and Sherlock was alone. He groaned, his foot screaming with pain, and carefully, he picked himself up and he made it to a standing position. He held on to the backs of chairs, onto tables, and slowly he made his way to the bathroom, where he ran a tub full of the iciest water he could stand. He removed the sock, bandage, and slipper from his left foot and perched on the edge of the tub with his foot in the water. The cold hurt at first, but slowly his foot numbed and the pain receded. _I wonder if his old and valued friend knows that his patient was just made to walk on his injured foot while being manhandled down a hallway by a deranged idiot, _Sherlock thought.

"Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock turned and there was Halmsley in the doorway. "Yes?"

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," Sherlock said, moving his foot back and forth in the water. "Just giving my foot a little care. Are you all right?"

Halmsley blinked a few times and looked at him. "What do you mean?"

"He shoved you pretty hard," Sherlock reminded him. "For a moment, you looked positively frightened of Rowlesden."

Halmsley shrugged. "He has a temper when he's provoked. Fortunately, that doesn't happen often. He cares about Dr. Black the same way you care about Dr. Watson, so of course, he was furious that Dr. Black was hurt. Did you really have to throw that book at him?"

"I don't know what happened," Sherlock stated. "One moment, I was holding the book and the next thing I knew, the book had flown across the distance separating me and Dr. Black and had hit him in the face."

"Well, keep in mind that objects acquiring strange powers of flight should not strike Dr. Black or any of Mr. Rowlesden's friends, all right?"

"Are you trying to bargain with me?" Sherlock said slowly, surprised.

"More like I'm pleading with you," Halmsley said. "My life is easier when Mr. Rowlesden is not...provoked."

"If he causes you that much grief, why not find another position?" Sherlock wanted to know.

Halmsley's chin lifted a fraction, but his face was blank. "I'll set your clothes out for dinner tonight and make sure that nothing needs pressed or brushed," he said. "Dinner tonight will be a formal affair. All of Mr. Rowlesden's friends will be coming to meet you now that you are up and about."

Sherlock looked at the water in the tub and wondered if he could drown himself before undergoing the particular annoyance of meeting people. "They'll be disappointed. I'm hardly a good dinner companion."

"Try your best," Halmsley suggested. "Pretend you're in a room full of John Watsons."

Sherlock imagined that dining room downstairs filled with men and women in formal dinner dress and then imagined a full two dozen John Watsons in tuxedos for the men...and in formal evening dresses for the women, complete with heels and makeup. He felt his lips twitch and then he burst out laughing, laughing so hard that he slipped and slid into the tub of water. "Oh, cold!" Sherlock shouted, flailing in the tub and splashing water everywhere. "Very cold!"

"Be careful!" Halmsely chided him, pulling him out of the tub and grabbing some towels from the towel stand. "Not only is your foot injured, but you're doing the best you can to catch a cold!"

Sherlock shivered and pulled off his suit jacket. "Maybe I'll get lucky and end up contagious," he quipped, starting on the buttons on his shirt. "I hate to ask it, but walking hurts a bit. Could you get me some dry clothes?"

Halmsley fetched what he asked, bringing jeans and a button-down shirt plus whatever else was needed. Once he had privacy Sherlock undressed, dried off, and dressed in the dry clothes. He hung the wet clothes over the side of the tub and went back to his room. Halmsley was just finishing laying out a full tuxedo, complete with gleaming black shoes.

"Explain to me again, why is dinner formal?"

"The entire society is coming to meet you," Halmsley said. "The cook is in a state, I have to say. She's made absolute miracles in the kitchen, rather than just food."

"Will there be anything on the menu I'll want to eat?" Sherlock asked idly. If Halmsley was in a mood to talk, he might be able to glean some information about this place and the people who lived and worked there. The best way to learn something without anyone else realizing you've learned it was to intersperse the important questions in with a bunch of pointless ones.

"Oh, I would say so," Halmsley promised. "Our cook's specialties are English cooking and French cuisine, and her favorite book is Mrs. Beeton's. She's prepared a full dinner menu from that book, despite the fact that it's more than a hundred years old. There's five kinds of appetizers, two kinds of fish, three kinds of soup, two kinds of roast meat, several vegetable dishes, two salads, lots of different breads, fruit sorbets as a remove, cheese and fruit, and the sweet course is heaven on a dessert plate. I think you'll find plenty you want to eat. If you leave that table hungry it will be your own fault."

"What's the cook's name?"

"Mrs. Burton."

"Is there a Mr. Burton around?" Sometimes cooks were called "Mrs." as a sign of respect.

"He died two years ago," Halmsley said, examining the creases on the shoulders of the tuxedo. "He was rather kind. I miss him a lot."

"What did he do here?"

"He was the gardener and groundskeeper. All that you saw outside was his work. He could take any plant and make it grow."

"Could he now?" He was going to keep Halmsley talking for as long as possible since he was in such a talkative mood. He was far more reticent when it came to Mr. Rowlesden, but with the other staff, he was downright loquacious.

Halmsley nodded, using a clothes brush on the tuxedo. "Yes. And he was kind, like I said. Once, when I was ill, he actually cut some of the best blooms in the garden and had his wife make a vase of flowers for me to have in my room. He used to boast that that made all the difference in my recovery, and I never said anything to the contrary."

"Funny, I've heard John say something like that," Sherlock said, taking a seat in an easy chair. "He handled all the gardens? How far do they extend?"

"We have six acres of grounds around the house, and the gardens extend for about two. They were a good size for one man to work."

Sherlock filed that information away for later. "Any orchards? There was an orchard near my house when I was young, and I always found it a pleasant spot to sit and think."

"An small apple orchard with about ten trees," Halmsley admitted, giving the tuxedo a final look. "The trees make good cider. It looks ready. The gong will ring at quarter till as a warning and it will ring again at seven to let everyone know to come down. Please, Mr. Holmes, don't provoke Mr. Rowlesden any further. Please be dressed appropriately, be prepared to apologize, and be to dinner on time."

Holmes looked at him and raised an eyebrow. "Pleading again?" How interesting. Just how bad _would_ things get for Halmsley if Rowlesden was provoked again?

"I'll go down on my knees if you wish," Halmsley offered. "Just...please, please, _please_, be on your best behavior tonight. I will remain eternally grateful if you do."

The man was so vehement that Sherlock found himself nodding. "All right, then. I'll be charm itself."

Halmsley stared at him. "You will?" He paused and seemed to think. "According to what I've heard about you, do you even know how to be charming?"

He sounded so much like John that he had to laugh. "Yes, I think I can manage it," Sherlock said, chuckling. "Recently John's been letting me know what constitutes good behavior, so I'll be able to put those lessons to use."

"You'll make my day if you do," Halmsley sighed. "I'd best go downstairs and help set up for supper. I'll see you later tonight."

Once Halmsley had left, Sherlock used his walking stick to wander his room. He perused the shelves once again, then he examined the CDs and DVDs. He saw a CD of Yo-Yo Ma's greatest hits and snatched it from the rack. He _needed_ music, and this would work admirably. It wasn't long before he figured out the controls on the stereo and had the sweet strains of the cello filling his room. With the music playing in the background, he felt much calmer. Curious, he began poking around. In the wardrobe, he found...well, a complete wardrobe. There were several suits, dress shirts, slacks, casual shirts and trousers, jeans and T-shirts, jumpers, sleepwear, shoes and slippers, and of course, underwear, undershirts, and socks. There was even a fall jacket, fall gloves, winter coat, gloves, three scarves of various colors, and boots. (He fervently hoped that that wasn't an indication of how long he was going to be held in that place.) He left the wardrobe and opened up the desk, looking in all the drawers and cubbies. There were blank journals to write in, ruled notebooks, pens, pencils, a fountain pen and inkwell, embossed cream-colored stationery, reams of plain paper, colored pencils, charcoal pencils, and even a set of watercolor paints and a watercolor journal. There were, of course, the textbooks that Halmsley had mentioned earlier. He glanced through them, amused that these people thought these could possibly draw or hold his interest. They were general studies books that introductory college courses used. He had an English literature text, a grammar and composition text, world history and English history texts, a biology text, an astronomy text, a geography text, an anthropology text, a mathematics text, and a humanities text. In a drawer he found workbooks for French, Italian, and Spanish. Interesting. Did they really think that he would study these? He already spoke all three languages, and as for the other books, would any of that make him a better detective? He wasn't about to clutter up his mind palace with such elementary information. If he tried to study any of that material, he would be bored within minutes. So much for Mr. Rowlesden's assurances that he would have plenty of material to keep his mind occupied.

He switched on the television and found the news. There were the usual reports about unemployment, rising petrol prices, and then there was a report about a murder-suicide in Surrey. He groaned when he heard that the police could not find the gun that had been used in the crime. Testing revealed that one of the victims had fired the gun, but no gun had been found at the scene. "I need just five minutes in that room and five minutes with the victims' friends and associates and I could tell you who to put behind bars and where the weapon is!" he shouted at the television. It was _unbearable_ to be stuck in this place with crimes going on out there! Rowlesden and his accomplices were going to have a lot to answer for!

"In other news, there has been no further developments in the case of the kidnapping of Sherlock Holmes," the announcer stated, gazing directly into the camera. "Scotland Yard has come to a dead end, unfortunately, and no word has been had from the kidnappers."

"Of course there hasn't been," Holmes muttered, dropping onto the couch behind him and throwing a pillow in frustration. "Their aim is not ransom, it is torture!"

"Since their initial statements, none of the Holmes family have made any statements to the press, and no sign has has been seen of Dr. John Watson."

Sherlock felt his anxiety go through the roof and straight up through the stratosphere. Was John missing? Was he all right? Had Mycroft taken him into protection? He gave a wordless scream at the television and fought the urge to pace. What was _happening_ in London?

* * *

The gong went off at quarter till as promised, and Sherlock changed into the ridiculous tuxedo. He'd been at his window for the past twenty minutes, which looked over the front drive. He'd seen several luxury cars and men and women arriving dressed to the nines. Why did they feel the need for the fuss of a formal dinner? He ran a comb through his hair and as soon as the second gong sounded, he headed for the elevator, making his way along with a hobble and his walking stick. He took a bit of comfort in having that walking stick since in a pinch, it could do for a weapon. Once he was downstairs, he expected to find the front hall packed with people, but it was deserted. Telling himself that a deserted front hall did not mean anything, he went to the dining room. Halmsley was waiting to open the door for him, and as soon as he stepped inside he wanted to back out of the room. The dining room was packed with people, standing about talking, but when he entered they all turned around and looked at him for a moment before breaking into applause.

"Ah, the guest of honor arrives," Rowlesden said heartily, walking up to him and shaking his hand. He put an arm around Sherlock's shoulders and led him forward, saying, "Everyone, this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

A chorus of greetings assailed him, ranging from "Oh, hello!" to "So nice to meet you!" He shook several hands and had several faces grin at him, but he couldn't recall a single name by the time he'd met everyone.

"And of course you remember Dr. Black," Rowlesden said pointedly, steering Sherlock to stand in front of the doctor.

Sherlock heard the warning in Rowlesden's voice and decided to heed it. "Indeed I do," Sherlock said, putting his hand out to be shaken. "Dr. Black, I would like to apologize for my behavior earlier. It was uncalled for. I do hope you're all right." The words tasted like ashes in his mouth since he had said earlier that he would not apologize, but sometimes circumstances required you to do the prudent thing, rather than what you wanted.

"Oh, not to worry," Dr. Black assured him. "No harm done. You're not at your strongest, so the book didn't hit me too hard. I hardly needed the ice."

"Oh, good," Sherlock managed, all the while thinking _Blast!_

The gong sounded again, saving him from having talk to the doctor, and Rowlesden ushered him to his seat. He was seated on the right side of Rowlesden, the seat of honor since it was on the right side of the host. Sherlock glanced down at the white china and gleaming silver and stared at the folded napkin. He glanced at the other plates and wondered just who had the time to fold so many tulips. He supposed that it was a theme since the centerpiece was a vase of tulips.

The appetizers were brought out and Sherlock found himself falling into the role expected of him. The dinner was not strictly a la russe or a la francais, but instead the serving dishes were brought out, passed among the guests, and then taken back to the kitchen. He'd been taught when he was younger to help the lady on his right and he found himself holding serving dishes while she helped herself and then he would serve himself before passing the dish along. After the appetizers there was the soup course, then the fish. He'd had a bite of a canape, a few mouthfuls of the beef consomme and then a few forkfuls of fish. All of the food was superb, but it was hard to appreciate the flavors when people were insisting on talking to him. He learned the lady on his right was called Miss Lewis and she did...something...in finance. He tried to figure out what it was, but he did not have enough data to form a conclusion.

During the course of the evening's conversation, Sherlock learned that everyone at the table knew who he was, what he did, and details of his cases that were not available to the public. All of them were able to quote sections of John's blog and they were all happy to offer their own perspectives on certain cases. More than one of them wanted to know about what it had been like to have tea at Buckingham Palace.

"It was rather boring," Sherlock said, feeling he could discuss that safely. "I sat on a couch, had tea, a very dry biscuit, and more tea. People were talking, but I didn't listen to too much."

Chuckles moved all around the table. One man leaned forward and put his elbows on the table. "Did you really go to Buckingham Palace wrapped in a sheet?"

Sherlock blinked. He didn't really make a habit of reading John's blog so he couldn't be sure if that little detail was in there or not. If it wasn't, then it implied that these people had very good sources of information. "I did," he admitted.

Miss Lewis smiled, and it was clear she was fighting down a laugh. "How did that happen?"

"An associate came to my flat and told me to get dressed since I and my services were required. I refused, so he kidnapped me as I was and he took along some clothes for me to change into once I decided to get dressed."

As everyone started laughing, Sherlock reflected that what he'd said was not really that funny. Everyone, though, seemed to find it hilarious. The laughter kept going until at last everyone had calmed down.

"Oh, I wondered if that was true," Miss Lewis sighed. "I'll bet your brother was surprised to see you dressed-well, undressed-like that."

Sherlock shrugged. "He was as he always is."

"And how is he usually?" an older man called Mr. Porter asked. Holmes felt that this man had something to do with engineering and energy resources.

"Annoying."

More laughter.

Dinner finished with a vanilla creme brulee that melted in the mouth and actually made him close his eyes and sigh in appreciation. The crackly sugar crust on top and the feather-light interior were perfect complements to each other and when he put down his spoon he felt a pang of regret that there wasn't more.

"Do you enjoy sweets, Mr. Holmes?"

"Not usually, no," he confessed. "I don't usually enjoy them any more than other foods, but this was rather good. If Mrs. Burton makes it again, I'll be happy to have some."

"You should request it," Miss Lewis told him. "After all, you're here to rest up and gain back your strength, and part of that will be indulging yourself a little. There's nothing wrong with that."

"Nonsense," Sherlock said flatly. "If I start to be self-indulgent, then I would do so all the time, and it is important that I keep my edge."

"Not while you're here," Rowlesden reminded him. "An edge isn't needed here. You just need to relax and recuperate."

"What shall we do after dinner?" Mr. Porter asked, easily filling the silence that had followed Rowlesden's final statement.

"We cannot have dancing right now, not since Mr. Holmes' foot is injured," Rowlesden stated. "Why not some games?"

"Games?" Sherlock echoed, feeling a knot of panic crawling up his throat. What games would these people play? Charades? Whist? Something he had no interest in playing?

He found out soon enough. He was taken to the games room in the east wing of the house. He hadn't been there before, and in the games room there were fine sets for chess, checkers, backgammon, sets for poker, and solitaire. A cabinet held more prosaic board games like Chinese checkers, Monopoly, and even Cluedo. He saw the box for that game and tried his best not to break down laughing like a loon. He declined Cluedo and took a seat at one of the chess tables, taking on any and all challengers. He defeated Mr. Porter in five moves and used the Elephant Gambit against Rowlesden. He managed to checkmate him within thirty minutes, but Rowlesden had still made him work for it for five minutes. Two other men decided to challenge him and he had finished slaughtering the second when he noticed Halmsley whispering urgently to Rowlesden. Halmsley looked pale and rather worried, but Rowlesden laid a calming hand on the butler's shoulder and gave him a gentle push toward the door.

Intriguing, especially given his behavior toward the butler earlier that afternoon.

"You haven't had a chance to go online, have you, Mr. Holmes?" his second opponent asked chummily, sliding the chess pieces back into their places.

"No, I've been kept rather incommunicado, which is a state of affairs I've not enjoyed," Sherlock said flatly.

"Well, keeping you incommunicado is necessary, what?" the man said, marking him as one of the class of men who had attended a prestigious public school. "If you could contact anyone, then you'd be making phone calls and sending emails and you wouldn't get any rest at all."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. This idiot actually thought he would hang around if he had a chance to call for help? Hmm.

"I was looking at Dr. Watson's blog earlier today, and the last update was made last night. It says nothing but 'On Hiatus.' Since you were brought here he would at least update every other hour with phrases like 'no word yet' or 'heard nothing.'"

Sherlock felt his worry go up a notch. Either John had stopped writing because he'd gotten tired of updating when there was nothing to report or more likely, he couldn't. The only thing that made wonder was whether John posted that status himself or if someone else had done it. If John had posted it himself then that meant he'd known he would be unable to post, so what did that mean exactly? Where was John now, and what was he doing? "Interesting," he said, thinking hard.

It wasn't long after that before Rowlesden asked his guests to excuse Mr. Holmes, who had had a very long day would doubtless be tired. Sherlock didn't argue, glad to get away for some privacy with his own thoughts. He needed to think very, very badly.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

He woke up the next morning to the sun shining into his face and hearing birdsong. For a few minutes, he lay in bed and just enjoyed the fact that there was nothing he needed to do for the moment. Once that thought hit him he felt annoyed. Rowlesden and his ridiculous cronies wanted him to take it easy and here he was, doing just that. The sense of ease and relaxation around this place was insidious, creeping in under your guard and making you lazy!

He sighed and contemplated the night before. Everything he had seen and heard last night had him concerned. These people who were holding him were intelligent, wealthy, and had a good many resources at their disposal. That meant they could do almost anything at all. All of them seemed to be placed highly within the energy, medical, and financial fields. The amount of capital at their fingertips would be staggering, and that much money would buy them the best of protection, accommodations, and other assets. If, for example, they wanted to take him overseas, they would only have to bundle him onto a private jet and off they would go. He was sure that at least three of them had private jets. No one would ever find him if they managed to get him out of the country. He would have to be very, very careful. If he was able to escape, he would have to make sure not to get caught. He was sure that he wouldn't be able to manage a second chance at escaping.

"Ah, good morning," Halmsley said. "I've brought tea for you."

Sherlock looked the tea tray over. "I see you've had the Herend china replaced."

Halmsley smiled. "More like I had spares on hand. Did you sleep well?"

Sherlock thought about just how well he'd slept. "Very. Was I given anything last night? In the coffee I had after dinner, perhaps?"

"I wouldn't know," Halmsley said, pouring him a cup of tea and adding two sugars. "I had to leave last night."

Holmes thought about the odd exchange last night between butler and master. "That's right. Anything wrong?"

Halmsley shook his head. "No, nothing wrong, per se. Just a little trouble that required my attention."

"I see," Sherlock said, observing the dark circles under Halmsley's eyes. "Just how much of a little trouble is it? Is there anything I can do?"

Another head shake. "You're here to rest and relax, not take care of my troubles, Mr. Holmes. The master would be most upset."

He'd gone extremely proper again, which meant that he wasn't going to share anything further. "Has anything been planned for me today?"

"Nothing has been planned, unless you would like us to plan something for you," Halmsley answered.

The thought of a compulsory activity planned on his behalf horrified him. "No, thank you. I'm sure I can amuse myself today. In fact, I'm positive."

Halmsley simply gave a small bow and left. Sherlock finished his tea, showered, dressed, found his walking stick, and headed downstairs for breakfast. He wanted, more than anything else, to forego all the fuss of a formal meal, but he had a good feeling that he would not be allowed to do that. He hadn't been able to spot any surveillance cameras in the house, but just because he did not see them did not mean they were not there. He found the dining room deserted, thankfully, and he assembled a plate of toast and scrambled eggs for his breakfast. That and a glass of juice would do for him. He managed half the toast and eggs, a few sips of juice, and then he was outside, suddenly feeling too confined in the house.

He hobbled across the veranda and into the gardens. It was a nice morning, sunny and clear, if a bit chilly for spring. He walked through the east garden and headed around to the back of the house and found the quintessential English rose garden. The only thing marring the whole effect was the garage off beyond the rose bushes. Aside from that, the garden looked like the perfect spot to sit and rest his foot. He was there for perhaps fifteen minutes before he became aware of someone lurking nearby. He took a firmer grip on the walking stick and stood up, his eyes scanning the garden before spotting someone half-hidden by a large floribunda bush. "You might as well come out; I know you're there," he said loudly, making his voice carry over the garden.

A veritable bear of a man stepped out from his cover and smiled at him. He was wearing a nondescript black suit and the way he carried his shoulders suggested a holster underneath the jacket. His left hand was encased in a cast. The area around his left eye was bruised. He looked...familiar. "You are..." Sherlock said, his mind working to place the man. "I've seen you before."

"The great detective doesn't remember me?" the man said, his bass voice making alarm bells go off in Sherlock's head. "Mr. Holmes, I'm crushed."

_Mr. Holmes_ triggered the memory.

_Baker Street. Nighttime. The pavement still wet with rain, but it had stopped an hour ago. He was tired. He could not, in the whole of his life, remember ever being this tired before. Perhaps John was right that he was working too hard. Still, work energized him, so it had to be something else. He could be getting sick._

_"Mr. Holmes?"_

_He looked and found himself suddenly surrounded by eight men. When had that happened? He hadn't heard them or even seen them! "Who are you?"_

_"We've come to pick you up."_

After that it was a mish-mash of images of him fighting, the van pulling up, being pulled into it, the sight of a syringe, and then blackness.

Bastards. Especially the one in front of him.

"You!" Sherlock growled, gripping the walking staff like a club. "You're one of the ones who brought me to this place!"

"Bravo," the man said, clapping his hands in a derisory applause. "So your mind's not completely gone from overwork."

"Who the hell do you think you are?" Sherlock demanded, advancing on the man, ready to begin pummeling him. "Just kidnapping someone like that and bringing them to their own personal hell?"

"You'll have my guts for garters or some other such nonsense, I know," he said, putting his hands in his pockets and rolling his eyes. "Theatrics like this don't suit you, you know."

Holmes swung the walking stick, aiming for the man's solar plexus, but a giant hand grabbed his from behind and pulled him back. "Now, now, now, Mr. Holmes," the second man chided. "Mr. Rowlesden had you brought here so you you would rest. Is this resting?"

"Let go of me!" Sherlock shouted, windmilling his arm to break the second goon's grip. Instead, he had a sudden line of fire going from his wrist to his shoulder as his arm was twisted up behind his back. His fingers went numb and the walking stick fell.

"That's better," the first man said. "You'd hurt someone with that if you weren't careful."

"What do you want?" Sherlock snarled.

A chuckle from the second man. "We were asked to come tell you that you're out of bounds."

"Out of bounds?"

"Yes," the first man said, picking up the walking stick. "Don't you remember Mr. Rowlesden telling you that you would be confined to the house and east garden for the first few weeks? He remembers telling you that, but here you are, in the south garden, where you shouldn't be."

"Back inside, Mr. Holmes," the second man said as the first man also took hold of Sherlock's other arm. "It's orders."

In the time it took him to blink, he'd formulated a plan. It would take timing and he would probably be in excruciating pain later, but he had to take the chance.

They managed to frog-march him for only three steps before he attacked. Both of them went down in a matter of thirty seconds and he grabbed up the walking stick and hobbled toward the garage as fast as he could, leaving both men on the ground behind him, cursing. A minute was all it took him to get the door open and slip inside. Incredibly, the first car he tried matched the set of keys he'd lifted from Goon 1's pocket when they'd scuffled. He'd heard the jingle of keys when Goon 1 had approached him and the man hadn't expected anyone with light fingers to search his pockets. He was in the driver's seat and had just started up the car when the garage door swung open. He saw the gun and ducked down a split-second before he heard the gunshot. Glass shattered around him and someone pulled the door open and yanked him out. For the second time in as many minutes he was staring down a gun.

"Oh, now you're really in trouble," Goon 2 said brightly. "I can't wait to hear what Mr. Rowlesden is going to say."

"He'll probably say, 'You idiots, how could you let him lift the keys from your pockets?'" Sherlock said as they pulled him away from the car and started frog-marching him again. Goon 1 jerked him off balance, making him come down harder than he liked on his injured foot. "Oy! Be careful of the foot; it's painful!"

"Oh, is it?" Goon 2 wanted to know. "Right now, I'm wondering if we shouldn't break it even more. All the trouble you just caused and so on."

"Now, if you do that, Welling, Mr. Rowlesden will be most upset."

_I never thought I'd be glad to see him,_ Sherlock thought, seeing Halmsley standing just outside the garage door.

"Hey, there, Jamie," Goon 1 said. "How's things?"

"Trying in the extreme," Halmsley said. "What mischief has he gotten up to?"

"Tried to steal a car," Welling reported.

"And who shot the car?" Halmsley wanted to know.

"That just sort of...happened," Holmes said as Welling and Friend marched him out of the garage and toward the house.

"I see," Halmsley said patiently. "Mr. Rowlesden would like to see him right away."

He was marched right into the house and into a room that could only be Mr. Rowlesden's study. He was shoved into a chair and he found himself looking at the computer and the telephone with something akin to lust. Just one phone call...or one email...and this whole nightmare would be over!

"Hello, Mr. Holmes," Rowlesden said calmly from behind the desk. "You've had a busy morning, haven't you?"

"And yet I've accomplished nothing," Holmes answered. "I have to commend you on your employees, Rowlesden. They are most...effective."

Rowlesden's smile sent ice down his spine. "Thank you. I've had them bring you here due to your rule-breaking, Mr. Holmes. I did tell you that you were not allowed beyond the house and east garden, and I did tell you that trying to escape would be frowned upon, but here you are, having done both in one morning. What are we to do with you?"

"You could let me go," Sherlock suggested. "That would save us both a great deal of future headaches."

"That would be counter to what you need," Rowlesden said. "As a whole, this organization has decided to help you recuperate your strength, and that is what we will do, with or without your cooperation, Mr. Holmes."

"I still don't understand _why_," Sherlock said, feeling his temper reaching the boiling point. "I'm a grown man and I can take care of myself! I don't need benevolent strangers to step in and help me when I don't need help!"

"I would argue to the contrary, Mr. Holmes," Rowlesden told him evenly. "You are extremely irritable due to fatigue as you've proven several times over the last few days, letting your temper show over minor irritations."

Holmes glared at Rowlesden. "Minor irritations?"

"Indeed," Rowlesden continued. "Even worse, you're not thinking clearly. If you were thinking clearly, you would have put far more thought into the escape you attempted today. When you're tired and worn down, thinking clearly can become difficult, even for you, Mr. Holmes."

"There is nothing wrong with my thinking," Sherlock snapped. "I am FINE!"

"I doubt that your repeating you are fine will make it true," Rowlesden continued in the same infuriating tone. "You are not fine, you have not been fine for some months, and you owe it to yourself and all of those who will rely on your skills in the future to accept this gift you've been given."

The walking stick clattered to the floor. "Gift?"

"Yes, Mr. Holmes. Your time here is a gift. Here you will have all the time you need to regain your strength and bring your mind back to what it once was. If we have to make you rest with you kicking and screaming the whole way, then that is what will happen. Leave any worry or planning to us."

"I'll cut my throat first," Sherlock said lightly. "No matter what, no matter how long it takes, I will figure out a way to get out of here and I will bring all and every one of my brother's minions down upon you. He and I do not get along most of the time, but I think he will be happy to do it since by this point our mother is probably driving him to distraction with her worrying. His irritation after trying to calm our mother's fears will be formidable, and you and your friends will be shown no mercy!"

"Threats will get you nowhere, Mr. Holmes," Rowlesden said. "Now, Halmsley is going to escort you to see Dr. Black. I want to make sure your foot is not further injured and that your overexertion has not placed you in any danger. Halmsley, if he becomes difficult, you have my permission to do whatever it takes to get him to Dr. Black's rooms. Welling, Meyers, I would like both of you to stay. We need to talk."

Sherlock was quiet until he and Halmsley were far enough away so that they wouldn't be heard. Then, he let loose with a string of invective that actually made Halmsley turn pale.

"That's enough," Halmsley said as Sherlock ran out of steam and leaned against the wall. "You need to calm down."

"I'm fine," Sherlock growled, hobbling onward. "I just needed to get that out of my system."

"I should say," Halmsley sighed, falling into step beside Sherlock. "You should know, Mr. Holmes, that your color isn't good."

"Oh, don't you start," Sherlock groaned, feeling his heartbeat increase once again. Ever since Rowlesden's office his heart had been pounding and there was a funny buzzing feeling in his head that he didn't like at all. "I'm sick unto _death_ of people making concerned noises about my health!"

"Well, you should start listening!" Halmsley said. "I meant it when I said you didn't look good."

"I'm fine," Sherlock insisted. "I'm just..." He stopped, feeling decidedly odd. His heart was galloping in his chest and the buzzing in his head was so bad that suddenly he felt as if he couldn't stay on his feet. What the hell was wrong with him?

It happened too fast for him to do anything to prevent it. He fell, and then he became completely disoriented. He could remember staring up at the ceiling and seeing Halmsley bending over him, hearing him shouting for help. He saw Welling and and Meyers and Rowlesden, then Dr. Black, and a confusion of glimpses of different rooms and hallways until he came to rest on a soft surface in a quiet room with Dr. Black still bending over him.

"Feeling better, young man?" Dr. Black asked quietly.

He was more tired than he could ever remember being, even more tired than he had been the night he'd been kidnapped. "What happened?" He couldn't get his voice above a whisper.

"You had an anxiety attack," Dr. Black said, his voice soft and oddly soothing. "These happen during periods of great stress or after. Their symptoms can mimic a heart attack and cause you to feel light-headed. That's why you collapsed. I've already monitored your heart and aside from your heart rate being a little high, there's nothing wrong. You just need to rest quietly for a few minutes and your heart rate will go back to normal."

"I fell, I didn't collapse," Sherlock insisted. He still couldn't get his voice any louder. "Why can't I talk?"

"Your body's exhausted from this latest event, and you don't have quite enough strength yet to really talk. I'll bet even doing that small amount of whispering you've done has made you feel even more tired," Dr. Black told him. "I know you don't feel that you need to rest, but right now, you do. Don't talk for a little bit and we'll see how you do. Would you perhaps like some music? Something to help you calm yourself?"

Sherlock thought about it. Having something outside himself that he could focus on would undoubtedly help how he was feeling at the moment. "What are my choices?"

"I have nature sounds with classical music, thunderstorms, wave and ocean sounds, Gregorian chant, and Bhuddist chant."

Not many choices. This Dr. Black had very limited tastes in music. "Bhuddist chant." Anything else sounded annoying.

"All right. Just a moment," Dr. Black said, going to a CD player and pressing buttons. Suddenly the sound of dozens of voices chanting and the Tibetan singing bowl came through the speakers, deluging the entire room with sound.

Sherlock turned his head and looked around. What he saw were light green and blue painted walls and white tile floors. The overhead lights were out and the only lights on were small lamps here and there. There were counters, a center table holding medical equipment, cabinets, a desk in the corner, and other paraphernalia of a doctor's examination room. "Where are we? Hospital?"

"My office," Dr. Black corrected, laying a stethoscope on Sherlock's chest and listening for a minute or so. What he heard must have satisfied him since he nodded, removed the earpieces from his ears, and draped the stethoscope around his neck. "Rowlesden has given me my own set of rooms here, and this is my office. If we have a guest whose health gives us cause for concern, then he or she is brought here so I can look after him or her. I'd hoped that you wouldn't end up here, but here we are. Perhaps it's all for the best. With you here, I know you'll rest." He went to a telephone on the wall and buzzed. A second later the intercom switched on. "_Yes, Doctor Black?_"

"Halmsley, I would like you to come and help me get Mr. Holmes settled in a patient room. He's conscious now and his heart rate is back to normal."

"_On my way, sir,_" Halmsley responded, and the intercom switched off.

Sherlock settled on his side and focused on not thinking until Halmsley arrived. When he attempted to sit up, Dr. Black pressed him back into the exam table and made him stay put until Halmsley had wheeled up a gurney. Together the doctor and Halmsley lifted him and placed him on the gurney and wheeled him into the next room. It was set up like a hospital room, complete with a regulation hospital bed, but the color scheme and decoration were a little more home-like than the usual hospital decoration he'd seen in hospital rooms. Dr. Black and Halmsley helped him into soft cotton pajamas and then tucked him into bed. He lay there feeling as if nothing were quite real. If he'd been himself, he would have insisted that he was fine and that fussing wasn't needed. "Couldn't I have walked?"

"Not on your life," Dr. Black gasped. "You need rest; not walking about. You'll be on bed rest for the next few days until I'm convinced you're recovered."

"Bed rest?"

"Yes, bed rest," the doctor repeated. "The only times I want you out of bed are when you're in the bathroom, the shower, or being examined. If I catch you out of bed when you shouldn't be, I'll extend the bed rest and use restraints to keep you there. Do you understand, Mr. Holmes?"

He nodded, too tired to argue. He was starting not to care what the doctor was telling him just so long as he shut up and let him get some rest. "Mm-hmm."

"I'll let you sleep," Dr. Black said, turning down the lights. "If you wake up and need or want anything, then the call button is by your bed. Sleep well."

As Dr. Black left the room, Sherlock felt his eyes slide closed. He lay there in the semi-dark and quiet, feeling any remaining tension drifting away from him. He almost felt drugged, the same torpor he'd experienced more than once holding his body captive and keeping him in a relaxed state. At this point, he really didn't care anymore.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

When Sherlock woke, it was with the feeling that something had changed or broken and that whatever it was, it was going to be difficult to repair. He lay in bed and let his mind think about nothing much for a while. He was so tired that he really didn't mind being in bed. He could remember some mornings when he would wake up and could barely stand being in bed. He could remember jumping up, getting dressed, and running out the front door with barely enough time to grab a cup of tea. Now, here he was, lying there and not caring. It was funny how things could change.

A door opening brought him out of his thoughts. "Good morning, Mr. Holmes," Halmsley said as he came in. He was carrying a breakfast tray and Sherlock caught the scent of sausage on the air.

"Morning," Sherlock said, trying to sit up.

"Don't try to sit up; Dr. Black said you would still be tired," Halmlsey said, placing the tray on a table before moving to the Sherlock's side and pressing a button. Immediately the bed started to rise and it wasn't long before Sherlock was sitting up in bed, perfectly comfortable. "There, that's better."

"Did Dr. Black say how long I would be this tired?"

Halmsley wheeled the table over to the bed, its height and position perfect for having a meal. "He said for the next day or so."

Sherlock sighed. "Marvelous. One little attack of anxiety and I end up a bed-bound invalid."

"He told me that an anxiety attack can wear you out." Halmsley inclined his head to the side and appeared to think, searching his memory for something. "Oh! Yes, he wanted me to let you know that he'll be coming to talk to you after you've had breakfast."

"About what?"

"He didn't tell me. I expect that it will be between the two of you."

Sherlock nodded and examined what was on the breakfast tray. A slice of French toast spread with chocolate and hazelnut butter, some sausage links, sliced bananas and strawberries, yogurt mixed with granola, and a glass of milk. Interesting. He took a sip of the milk and nearly dropped the glass when the taste hit him. "What's in this milk?"

"Malted milk powder," Halmsley told him with a smile. "If it's too sweet, I can bring you something else."

"No, this is fine," Sherlock said, taking a cautious sip. "It's actually...quite good. I just wasn't expecting it. Might one ask why it's been added to the milk?"

"Dr. Black's orders."

Sherlock blinked. "Really? Why?"

"He's given Mrs. Burton a dietary plan to follow for you. He says you're too thin and that it would be best if you put on some weight."

"I'm not too thin," Sherlock protested. "I've always been...slender. That's not a crime."

Halmsley held his arms up in a position of surrender. "I'm just the messenger. I have other work to do, but if you need something, just use the call button."

After Halmsley left, Sherlock ate. He had a few bites of everything and a few more sips of milk before feeling sated. He pushed the table away and spotted the remote buttons on the side of his bed. He was watching television when Dr. Black arrived.

"I'm glad to see you've figured out the buttons," Dr. Black told him. "We've had a few patients down here who never could figure them out. How do you feel this morning?"

Sherlock thought about it and decided to be honest. "Tired. Halmsley told me that you think it will last a little while."

"It will. The next few days, at least. You've shorted yourself on food and sleep, and that takes a toll on the body. Add to that all the stress you've been under lately, and then of course you're going to have a reaction like you did and the resulting fatigue."

"If you know kidnapping your guests will over-stress them, why do you do it?" Sherlock wanted to know.

"Now, when we weighed you yesterday, I have to confess that I was shocked at how underweight you are," Dr. Black said, sidestepping Sherlock's question neatly. "You've always been thin, I understand, but if you lose much more weight you'll approach emaciation, which is a dangerous state for the body to be in. I've asked Mrs. Burton to follow a dietary plan for you that will help you put on weight without too much difficulty. Once you've put on a stone, I'll release you from the infirmary."

Sherlock thought about this. Fourteen pounds? That was it? Why not make it a million? "I don't think I can do that."

Dr. Black smiled. "It will be easier than you think, Mr. Holmes. Mrs. Burton will be giving you meals that will help and I'll be monitoring you. Speaking of which..." He regarded Sherlock's abandoned breakfast tray. "You should have eaten more of this."

"I've eaten all I can for right now," Sherlock protested. "Really, I have."

Dr. Black nodded. "All right, then. Now, this plan will require you to eat three meals a day and three snacks, as well as drink things when they're brought to you. If there's something you would prefer, then let Halmsley know and he'll have Mrs. Burton prepare it for you. If you eat what you are supposed to and rest, then in short order you'll reach your goal. Do you understand?"

Sherlock nodded. "I do. I was wondering..." He hesitated, apparently reluctant to ask something. They might be wanting him to just eat and sleep, but he couldn't do that. He'd go mad. Ergo, he had to have something to occupy his mind.

"Yes?" Dr. Black encouraged.

"Could I have some newspapers? Some books? I don't want to spend all my time watching the telly."

An amused chuckle from Dr. Black. "Of course, of course. I'll send Halmsley with them shortly. Anything else?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Not for right now. Ah, where is the WC?"

Dr. Black opened a door, and there was the toilet, a sink, and a shower. "Once again, Mr. Holmes, if you need something, don't hesitate to ask. I'll be by later to see how you're doing."

Once Dr. Black had left, Sherlock went into the bathroom, took care of the necessary, had a shower, dressed in the clean pajamas he'd found hanging on the back of the door, brushed his teeth, and combed his hair. It was getting rather long and sooner or later he would have to have it cut. He searched for shaving supplies but there were none there. He would have to ask Halmsley. Shortly after he'd returned to bed Halsmley arrived with the requested newspapers and books.

He spent a pleasant few hours reading through the newspapers. He read everything, even the advertisements. There were the usual reports about employment, education, Parliament, other politicians, and crime. Then there were the pages devoted to news overseas. He did find three stories devoted to his kidnapping, but they merely reported what was already known. One article did speculate who might have been behind the kidnapping, but the author's ideas were so far off the mark that it was incredible. One article focused on John, tracing his movements over the past few days and speculating on what he was up to. Sherlock had the feeling that for each thing reported in the article there were ten things John had done that everyone had missed.

For a morning snack Halmsley brought him oatmeal and raisin biscuits, a small baked apple with butter and sugar, and of course, a glass of milk. It was flavored with vanilla and sugar and tasted like ice cream in a glass. He ate as much as he could, finished the milk, and then returned to his reading.

After the newspapers, he leafed through the books Halmsley had brought him. There were a few art books, a book about history, a biography of Stradivarius, and a travel book about Europe. He was occupied with the books until lunch, which Halmsley brought him at about twelve-thirty. There was a grilled turkey, bacon, cheddar, and spinach sandwich and a bowl of milk-based potato and broccoli soup. There was another glass of milk and tasting it proved that there was malted milk powder in it once more. For dessert there was a slice of apple crumble with cream.

They were serious about his putting on some weight. Hmm. He ate a bit of everything, making an effort to eat more than he left. The sooner he gained, the sooner he got out of the infirmary. Annoying in the extreme, but there it was. He did finish all the milk and soup, thankfully, so surely that would make a dent in how much he had to gain.

After lunch he stretched out in bed and dozed for an hour or so. In the middle of the afternoon Halmsley came by with a tea tray for him, but instead of actual tea there was hot chocolate for him to drink and a cinnamon roll dripping with glaze. He ate the entire roll, somehow, and had two cups of chocolate. He watched television for a while after that and then Gary arrived to give him a massage. It was much easier to go through after having had one the day before, and he actually enjoyed it. Gary did something to his back that had him groaning in relief and then did...something...to his shoulders that gave him goosebumps. He'd never realized just how good something like a massage could feel. What could be better than a massage? He thought about it the whole time Gary worked on his back and decided that at some point he would have to do some research into massage and other therapies like it. It was possible that something like it felt even better.

Dinner that night was once again on a tray. He had a salmon steak with a mushroom sauce, asparagus with butter, garlic mashed potatoes mixed with Cheddar, and for dessert was creme brulee. To drink he had what proved to be something called an egg cream. It consisted of chocolate syrup, soda water, and milk. It was positively delicious and he made it last all through the meal, finishing it only once he'd eaten the last bite of his dessert. With some surprise, he realized that he'd cleaned his plate.

"Now that is really gratifying," Halmsley said later when he showed up to take the tray away. "Mrs. Burton will be pleased."

"She will?" Sherlock put his book aside. If he was lucky, Halmsley might be in the mood to talk for a bit.

"Oh, yes," Halmsley assured him. "She was beginning to think that you didn't like her cooking since you'd eaten so little these past few days, but seeing all that you've eaten today, she'll be really happy."

"No, she's an excellent cook." Sherlock raised an eyebrow and smiled. "I'm just not used to eating a lot."

"Well, it's good to see you've eaten today," Halmsley said. "Did your Mrs. Hudson cook for you, or was she really only your landlady?"

Sherlock's smile warmed. "Oh, she told us several times that she was only our landlady, but that didn't stop her from trying to mother us in all the ways she could. John and I could be out on a case and we would come home to a meal kept warm for us and a hot drink before she'd send us both off to bed. Lots of times she would bring us tea, sandwiches, and biscuits, and if she felt one or both of us was failing to eat, she would appear at all times with enough food to send us into comas. Sometimes she would make the full English for John when she thought he looked hungry in the morning."

Halmsley actually laughed. "Oh, dear. It sounds as if she and Mrs. Burton are one and the same. I'll hear all the time about how I'm too thin and I wouldn't look so tired all the time if I ate more."

Sherlock felt the laugh bubble up inside him and before he could control himself, he threw his head back and laughed until he was almost breathless. "Mrs. Hudson says the same thing! The exact same thing! Oh, Lord. If I didn't know Mrs. Hudson was in Baker Street, I would swear that she'd followed me here."

"Are you sure that Mrs. Hudson is still in Baker Street?" Halmsley wanted to know. "She could be sneaky. She could have made her way here in secret. You never know with these older-lady-cook-housekeeper-landlady types."

"I know for certain that she's still in Baker Street." Holmes grinned, his sudden good mood taking over his mouth. Halmsley would love this.

"How do you know?" Halmsley asked, his eyes bright with good humor, his entire face letting Sherlock know that he was just waiting for his answer.

"I once told John that if Mrs. Hudson should ever leave Baker Street, then England would fall," Sherlock said, feeling his lips twitch again into a smile. "Tell me, has England fallen?"

"Not in the slightest," Halmsley said, dropping into a chair and holding his stomach. A second later he was laughing hard enough to burst.

Halmsley's laughter was infectious and for the second time that evening Sherlock found himself laughing until he was breathless. Each time he or Halmsley would look at the other they would be off again, laughing like loons. Several times they fought to get themselves under control, but one glance and a titter or giggle from either of them and off they would go again, laughing loud enough to shake the rafters of the house. Finally, at long last, they were calm enough to actually talk.

"Has Mr. Rowlesden received any news of John?" Sherlock asked, his good mood leaving a smile on his face.

"Nothing really," Halmsley admitted. "Or at least, nothing that he's shared with me. I think that your brother might have something to do with Dr. Watson disappearing like he has."

"I wouldn't put it past Mycroft at all," Sherlock said with a sigh. "I doubt John would thank him for it, though. Mycroft's style of protection can be rather...smothering."

"Let me guess...He's tried to protect you?"

Sherlock snickered. There was no other word for the sound he'd made, and he had a hunch that if Mycroft had heard it, he would have been supremely annoyed. "Over, over, and over again. When we were children it wasn't that big of a deal; he was the elder brother, after all. Once we were grown, however, it became trying."

"And how do you think Dr. Watson is handling being in your brother's protection?"

"He most likely hates it, if that's where he is," Sherlock said thoughtfully. "John hates to just sit and wait. He's the most patient person I know, especially when patience is required, but he hates to sit and wait when he feels he should be doing something."

"If he's like you described, then I feel sorry for whoever has to watch after him," Halmsley, said, getting to his feet and straightening his coat. "He sounds as if he'll be as much of a handful as you are."

Sherlock looked at the butler. "Handful?"

Halmsley smiled. "I mean that in the best possible way, of course, Mr. Holmes."

"Oh, please call me Sherlock," Sherlock said. "Every time you say Mr. Holmes I expect to see my father or Mycroft."

Halmsley grinned and it was clear he was fighting down another fighting fit. "I'm not allowed to, sir," he said, sounding regretful despite still smiling. "Mr. Rowlesden insists on formality."

"Mr. Rowlesden is something of a stick in the mud." Another chuckle from Halmsely had him expanding on that theme within a second. "Oh, come on. Do tell me you've noticed! It's 'Mr. Holmes' this and 'Mr. Holmes' that!" He imitated Rowlesden's voice exactly and the butler had to turn away to get himself under control.

"You're right, of course," Halmsley said, taking a deep breath to keep himself calm. "However, there's nothing I can do about that. I have to do as he says."

"The pay here must be rather good for you to do everything he says without a qualm," Holmes said, his mind working full tilt. There was something here he wasn't seeing...something to do with Halmsley.

"Well, not really, but the other benefits that come with the job are good," Halmsley admitted.

Holmes looked him up and down, his mind fully engaged now. "I see. Forgive me, Halmsley, but why do I feel that you aren't happy here?"

Halmsley looked startled. "What do you mean?"

"I have seen Rowlesden treat you kindly and I've seen him treat you unkindly. You do exactly as you're told and it's clear that your position can be a terribly trying one, however, when I mentioned that there are other positions out there, you did not even acknowledge my statement. One might conclude that it's something that you won't or can't discuss. Now, what might..."

"Stop!" Halmsley said quietly, holding out a hand. "Just...stop, Mr. Holmes. Please."

Holmes looked at him, confused by the butler's sudden change in demeanor. "But why?"

"Like you said, I won't discuss it."

Holmes nodded, hearing what Halmsley hadn't said. "You mean you dare not."

"I don't want to talk about this anymore," Halmsley said, packing up the dinner tray, his trembling hands betraying his agitation. "Please, Mr. Holmes, please don't mention it to Mr. Rowlesden. He won't be happy if he knows we talked about this."

"We didn't talk about it all," Sherlock reminded him. "You avoided it quite easily. However, I won't mention it. You have my word."

Halmsley sighed, relieved. "Thank you, sir."

Sherlock thought about everything that had happened once Halmsley was gone. Something was going on here, something that did not quite fit. Why was Halmsley so worried about talking about finding another position? It was as if he was afraid of something worse than getting fired. What could be worse than that? Why was he so afraid of Rowlesden's anger?

He turned it around and around in his head, but once again, he did not have enough data to draw a conclusion. That was annoying in the extreme. What was it he wasn't seeing?

It wasn't Halmsley who brought him an evening snack a few hours later, it was an older woman that Sherlock was sure was Mrs. Burton.

"Hello, there, dear," she said, carrying in a tray. "I've brought you a bite of something for you to have before you go to sleep."

"Are you Mrs. Burton?"

"That I am, yes," she said, giving him a warm smile. "How did you know?"

"Halmsley told me about you," Sherlock told her, looking at the warm cheese toast and cup of herbal tea on the tray. "I guessed."

Her smile broadened. "Oh, come now. I've heard you never guess."

"I can do it occasionally, if I like," Sherlock answered, giving her a smile. "I'm glad to meet you."

"Oh, I'm glad to meet you, too," she said. "It's good to see you finally have an appetite, you know. I was that worried, you see, that you weren't eating enough to keep a cat alive. Halmsley was the same way when he first came."

Oh, that was interesting. Why would a butler refuse to eat at his employer's home? He took a few bites of toast and sipped at his tea. "Was he?"

"Oh, yes, and worse! Tray after tray untouched, and then even after he'd been under the doctor's care he wouldn't eat! It wasn't until his little sister went off to school that he started eating. Each time he ate he looked as if every bite would choke him, but he managed it. Now he rarely has a problem, thank goodness. He sleeps, too, every night, which is all to the good. When he first came, he would wander about the house with these awful dark circles under his eyes and he would stare at you as if he wasn't sure you were real. It was clear that he wasn't sleeping. For a while I worried that he might be sent away to one of Dr. Black's hospitals, but he's much better now. My husband made it his business to look after him as much as he could and I think that he responded to Richie's kindness more than he did to Mr. Rowlesden's."

"I heard your husband was a kind man," Sherlock said, eager to keep the cook talking. "Halmsley told me so."

She smiled again. "Oh, yes, that he was. It was Richie's suggestion that he find himself some regular work to do so that he wasn't thinking all the time, and before we knew it, he began helping Richie with the grounds and me in the kitchen sometimes, and then Mr. Rowlesden offered him the position of butler, and that was that."

"So he wasn't butler to start with?" Sherlock asked.

"Oh, not at all," Mrs. Burton said. "Mr. Rowlesden brought him here, oh, it must be close to seven years ago now. Fussed over him a great deal and waited on him hand and foot and offered him his own studio to paint in, but Halmsley refused to do anything that Mr. Rowlesden wanted. You should have heard the two of them shout at each other!" She rolled her eyes and let out a mirthless laugh. "The things they said! Heavens! No human body could repeat it! At first, Mr. Rowlesden didn't want Halmsley doing work in the kitchen or the gardens, but Halmsley wasn't going anywhere and he said to Mr. Rowlesden that he needed something constructive to do aside from painting, so Mr. Rowlesden gave in and made him butler. The position is his as long as he follows Mr. Rowlesden's rules-can't say what they are, Halsmley's never told me-and as long as he stays. He enjoys working, too. The only times he leaves the job behind are when he goes to visit his sister at Christmas and for a few weeks in the summer. Eh, he's a good boy, so he deserves more fun than he allows himself to have."

"I agree," Sherlock said, all of Mrs. Burton's words tumbling around in his head. He was rapidly coming to a conclusion, but he wasn't sure of it yet. By this point, he'd eaten all of the toast and the tea was just a sweet memory on his tongue. Mrs. Burton took the now-empty tray, wished him a good night, and bustled out, humming. Sherlock settled down in bed and let his mind wander over what he'd been told about Halmsley. All of it was very interesting, but fortunately his interest didn't keep him awake, and he fell asleep, his mind still turning things over and over in his dreams.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

For the next several days, Sherlock's days followed a pattern. He would be woken by Halmsley bringing him his breakfast tray around eight o'clock. He would have a leisurely breakfast (which was always delicious) and then have a shower and change into fresh pajamas (he'd asked for actual clothes, but Dr. Black had refused and asked him how would he be able to rest fully dressed) and then return to bed to either read or watch television for a while. Around ten thirty Halmsley would bring either a snack or substantial drink, and then lunch would come at one. After lunch he dozed, and then after his rest (he refused to call it a nap) Gary would arrive for his massage, or Dr. Black would come and guide him through easy exercises that were to keep his muscles in shape. After that was another snack, and then he would amuse himself for a while by reading, and then there would be dinner. After dinner he would listen to music, read, or watch television, and then around nine thirty Halmsley would bring him an evening snack. Usually by ten or ten thirty he would go to sleep, and then the next day the whole pattern would start over again.

He was bored out of his mind. The worst thing was that he did not have a gun and a handy wall to shoot. He could only read or watch television so long before his mind craved something else, something more...substantial. Whenever he found the boredom too much to stand, he would sit back, close his eyes, and go to his mind palace. That was the best thing to do. Right in the entryway there were the problem of his captivity (represented by himself) and the problem of Halmsley (represented by, of course, Halmsley). It was interesting to speculate about both problems, but he did not have enough data to quite figure things out. He had a great many little snippets that were enticing and very intriguing, but not enough. Not yet.

When he was not considering his captivity and the puzzle that Halmsley presented, he found himself thinking of...well, it had been one afternoon several years ago. He'd been in London working a case and he'd just brought it to a satisfactory conclusion when he became aware of a black car following him. He attempted to lose it, but a short cut through an alleyway had brought him right into the path of another car, and this one he was unable to avoid. He was escorted into the car by a few men and driven to Simpson's on The Strand. Mycroft had been there waiting for him, smiling.

"Do you have a new hobby?" Sherlock had demanded upon seeing his brother waiting at the table.

"And what hobby would that be?"

Sherlock could remember narrowing his eyes and glaring at his brother. "Kidnapping."

"Not at all," Mycroft told him. "I just thought I should treat my baby brother to a good meal. I can certainly do that, can't I?"

"You could have called," Sherlock snapped. "Emailed. Texted me. Used smoke signals. A bloody carrier pigeon would have been fine! Couldn't you have used one of those methods?!"

"Language, Sherlock," Mycroft said reprovingly. He raised an eyebrow and all but wrestled Sherlock into a chair. "As for a call, email, or other method of communication, you would have just ignored the message. No, ensuring your transportation ensures that I would get to see you and we would be able to have dinner."

"Ensuring my transportation? Is that what you call it?"

"What would you call it?" Mycroft said, taking his seat.

"Kidnapping."

"Oh, really now," Mycroft said. "You're not still going on about that, are you? I took the liberty of ordering for you. I hope that's all right."

"What if I've already had dinner?" Sherlock wanted to know.

"I know for a fact that you haven't," Mycroft said as a server poured wine for the both of them. "I know for a fact that you've not had anything but water pass your lips today, and yesterday you only had a few biscuits and tea, so food is necessary." The server then placed a bowl of London particular in front of each of them and Sherlock had felt his mouth water as soon as the soup's aroma hit him. Mycroft hadn't said a word, but he had passed him the breadbasket.

Sherlock could remember every moment of that dinner. It was the first time he and his brother had sat down together for years without a real argument. A real argument between them usually included shouting, cursing, and being banned from someplace, if the argument was in public. This argument was nothing more than a little snapping and snarling before he and Mycroft had run out of steam. He could remember Mycroft surreptitiously watching him through the whole meal, making sure that he was eating. He'd eaten the pea and ham soup, had some of the Scottish roast beef and roasted potatoes with cabbage, and for dessert he'd had sticky toffee pudding and coffee. The food had been superb, although he would never say so to Mycroft. He was smug enough that Sherlock had agreed to have dinner with him. Hearing Sherlock admit that his elder brother had been right and that he had needed to eat and had actually enjoyed a meal would have been unbearable.

"It's good to see you eating," Mycroft had said. "Mother worries that you don't eat enough, you know."

"I eat when it's necessary," Sherlock had answered.

"I'm sure," Mycroft said dryly. "I hope that the next time we have dinner out, it will be your choice."

Sherlock leveled a glare at his brother that could have killed a lesser man. "I hope you're not planning on making a habit out of this."

"Out of what?"

"Kidnapping me for dinner," Sherlock had said, taking a last sip of his coffee. "Surely you can find other dinner companions?"

"None of them were a young man I was related to that hadn't had anything substantial to eat for quite some time," Mycroft countered. "That young man was my chosen dinner companion for this evening."

"Hmph."

"I hope your detecting work is going well," Mycroft remarked.

"I'm rather surprised it's been going so well," Sherlock confessed. "I'd thought you would have had something to say about it by now, or have done something to make me consider another line of work."

"Don't be ridiculous," Mycroft told him. "You've created a profession that is perfect for you. Do I wish that you would use your talents in a more worthwhile manner? Of course. Do I wish you would come to work for my division? Naturally. It would give us more time together. However, I know that you would not be happy there. You're happy doing what you're doing now."

Sherlock could remember lots of arguments about what he'd planned to do with his life, both with his parents and his brother. It made him disappear into London for a while and only the concerted effort of an entire team from Scotland Yard was able to find him. "Hmm. This is a different tune than the one you sang when you first learned what I planned on doing."

"What can I say?" Mycroft shrugged. "I was wrong in this particular instance. Tell me about your latest case."

Sherlock had been surprised but actually rather gratified that he wanted to hear about it. It had been a disappearance case and it turned out that an unfortunate girl was being held prisoner by a deranged man who believed her to be his daughter. He'd managed to find the girl, distract her captor, and bring in the police at the right time. He told about how, for a moment, he'd almost been in trouble-he left out the part about the gun that had been held to his head by the guilty party-and calmed Mycroft's fears with just a few words.

"Incredible," Mycroft said in awe. "Well done, Sherlock! How on earth did you manage to get the upper hand in that situation?"

Sherlock grinned, he couldn't help it. "By pretending that he'd beaten me. Sometimes, you can defeat your enemies by pretending that they've defeated you."

Sherlock's eyes snapped open, his body flooded with adrenalin, every neuron in his brain firing. He grinned, suddenly very, very happy.

* * *

He did nothing right away. He stayed in bed, resting, and eating the plentiful and frequent meals and snacks brought to him. He had a daily massage, did his exercises with Dr. Black, and a few times he was even taken downstairs to the lowest level of the house. What had been storerooms a hundred years ago had been made over and combined into a large room that held a tiled swimming pool. It was nice to go for a swim now and then, and it was even better when the water was heated so that it was as hot as bathwater. When Halmsley had first taken him there, he was surprised that such a place existed in that house.

"How long has it been here?" Sherlock asked, walking very carefully on his injured foot. He still had to use a stick, but Dr. Black had given him the okay to forego the wheelchair.

"It was made over in 1922," Halmsley said.

Sherlock looked the room over again. "That explains the Art-Deco," he said wryly. There were tiles painted with forest greens and browns and there was even a mosaic of fish at the bottom of the pool. The whole thing made one think of a pool in the middle of a forest. "It's very warm in here. Is this place supposed to be a rain forest?"

Halmsley went over to the pool, removed a glove, and put his hand in the water. "I've never asked, but I suppose it could be. Ahh. It's nice and warm. A swim in here will feel good."

"Have you ever done so?"

"What, swim?" Halmsley asked. "Oh, yes. Mr. Rowlesden insists on my coming down here at least once a week. He says I'm far too highly-strung for such a young man and that swimming here will help me relax. He felt that a swim here would benefit you, too."

Sherlock stored that little bit of information away. "All right, then," he agreed. "I don't have a swimming costume, though."

Halmsley pointed to a door. "There should be a costume for you in the changing room. Will you need any help?"

Holmes smiled. "I'm sure I can hobble my way over there without falling on my face, Halmsley."

The butler had chuckled and let him get ready on his own. After that day, it was nice to get out of the infirmary and go for a swim whenever he could. Dr. Black had given his approval for a swim as often has he liked, and he took advantage of it as often as he could.

He began making other requests, as well. At first, they were just small requests, such as things like new books to read and a way to play chess without having an actual partner. He was elated when Rowlesden brought him a tablet with an app that would let him play against the computer. He couldn't get the wretched thing to hook up to the Internet, but it did have several games on it that kept him occupied when he wasn't reading. All of the games had to do with logic and thinking, so he was pretty well occupied.

He made other requests, too, which he could tell pleased Mrs. Burton no end. He requested certain snacks and drinks to be brought for him when he had to eat. Dr. Black had ordered that nourishing drinks be added to all of his meals and snacks, which had been the reason for the malted milk and other beverages. Now, he requested what snacks and drinks he had rather than letting Mrs. Burton guess at what he might want. Generous portions of tidbits arrived for him several times a day, always accompanied by the drinks he'd wanted. He became rather fond of smoothies, of all things, and spent plenty of time just relaxing with a smoothie and a book.

Dr. Black gave him a check-up every other day and weighed him. Sherlock was never allowed to see just how much weight he was putting on, but Dr. Black would nod and tell him that he was doing well, but that he wasn't to goal yet. Whenever that happened, Sherlock would order an extra smoothie, just in case. Such an action couldn't really hurt and if it got him out of the infirmary sooner, then he wasn't about to fuss about doing something he enjoyed anyway. He'd been in the infirmary over two weeks when Dr. Black examined his foot and stated that he was ready to begin physical therapy for his injury. Dr. Black had him move a rag across the floor with his toes, point his toes up and down before curling them and spreading them out, and write words on the floor or in the air with his toes. Doing the exercises killed time and if doing them helped him get out of the infirmary, so much the better.

Three and a half weeks into his time in the infirmary, Halmsley brought him the morning paper, just as he always did. "Thought you'd want to see this first," he said, handing the paper to Sherlock. There, on the second page of the paper was a good-size article. The headline read, "Break-in at Baker Street."

Sherlock felt his stomach jump up and down. "Was anyone hurt?"

"Not at all," Halmsley hastened to assure him. "Your landlady was out, and Dr. Watson hasn't been at Baker Street for a while now."

Sherlock read the article; thought, and thought again. It stated that the owner of the house, Mrs. Hudson, had called the police the night before to report a break-in. The address was famous as the residence of Sherlock Holmes, the famous consulting detective. The article gave a re-cap of his kidnapping and reported that the whereabouts of Mr. Holmes' flatmate, Dr. John Watson, were still unknown. "The police aren't sure if anything was taken," he said at last. "Mrs. Hudson wasn't able to tell them. Anything that a regular thief might have taken like the computers and television and such were left alone. Nothing appeared to have been moved in any of the rooms. Nothing was taken from Mrs. Hudson's rooms. Interesting."

"Any thoughts as to who it might have been?" Halmsley asked, setting his breakfast tray on the table and wheeling it into place for him.

"No way to know," Sherlock said, setting the paper aside. "It is a crime to theorize before you have enough data."

Halmsley smiled. "So speaks the great detective," he intoned. "Is there anything you would like me to bring you for today?"

"Some more books, please; I've finished the ones I have," Sherlock requested.

"I'll bring some down as soon as I can," Halmsley promised. "I'll see you later."

Sherlock had just about finished breakfast when his door opened again, but it wasn't Halmsley. It was Rowlesden, carrying a stack of books and...a violin case. It looked very, very familiar. "Good morning, Mr. Holmes," Rowlesden said, placing the books and violin case on a chair. "How are you this morning?"

Sherlock swallowed his last mouthful and pushed the tray aside. "I'm just fine. What's all this?"

"I met Halmsley on the staircase. He said he was bringing some books for you, and since I had something to give to you, I brought them down for him," Rowlesden said. "I'd forgotten that you played the violin, but I was reading through Dr. Watson's blog last night, so I had this brought to the house for you."

Sherlock stared at the case as Rowlesden placed it on his lap. It was his. _His._ "The break-in at Baker Street?"

"Precisely," Rowlesden said, nodding. "Dr. Black said that it would be good for you to continue with a hobby you enjoy."

"It isn't a hobby; I play the violin while I'm thinking," Sherlock told him. "I hope you'll reimburse Mrs. Hudson for that broken window."

Rowlesden grinned. "It's already been taken care of," he promised. "Have a pleasant morning."

Holmes left the violin until after Halmsley had taken away his breakfast tray. He was furious with Rowlesden for breaking into his flat and stealing something, but his hands and his heart had missed making music. He decided to worry about yelling at Rowlesden later and took the violin out, rosined the bow, checked the strings, tuned, and then he was running through scales. Fifteen minutes later he was playing Bach's Chaconne and enjoying every minute of it. He gave his hands a rest only long enough for his morning snack and then he was back to playing, the music filling up an empty space in his heart that he hadn't realized had begun to ache.

In the middle of the afternoon he had to stop. His hands were aching and if he kept playing for much longer he would get blisters under the calluses on his fingers. Unfortunately, the music was like a drug, and it wasn't long before the violin was back in his hands and he was plucking at the strings, picking out little tunes. When Halmsley came down about supper time he stopped and stared at Sherlock. "Have you been playing that thing the whole day?"

"Most of it," Sherlock admitted. "I've missed music."

Halmsley nodded. "I see that. How do your hands feel?"

Sherlock put the violin down and held out his hands, looking at them thoughtfully. "Hmm. Not too bad, actually. I think they've missed the music, too."

"Let's hope that playing that much music in a day hasn't hurt them," Halmsley said. "I've come to give you an invitation to supper from Mr. Rowlesden. He says you must be sick of the infirmary by now, and getting out for a few hours will do you good. What answer shall I give him?"

Sherlock smiled. "Please give my thanks to Mr. Rowlesden and inform him that I shall be more than happy to come," Sherlock said at his most formal, his mood too happy to be dampened by the thought of enduring his kidnapper's company.

Halmsley glanced at him and then at the door, as if gauging the distance in case he had to make a run for it. "You know, you're scary when you're in a good mood."

Sherlock threw his head back and laughed, thinking that Halmsley and John were a great deal alike. John had said the same thing once. "You should see me when I'm at home in Baker Street," he told him.

"I think seeing that might scare me so badly that I'll never speak again," Halmsley said, a smile hovering around his mouth.

"It might," Sherlock agreed. "You and John should spend some time together. You could swap stories about me."

Halmsley's snort of laughter turned into a cough. Oh, the stories! "That wouldn't bother you?"

Sherlock shook his head, grinning. "Not in the slightest. John blogs about me, after all. There are a million stories that he doesn't share on the blog. What time should I be ready for supper, and will I have to go in my pajamas?"

Halmsley's smile told Sherlock that he really, really wanted to hear those stories from John, but aside from that, the younger man was all business. "Seven o'clock, and I'll bring you something to wear. It will be just Mr. Rowlesden and you."

"Ah, so dinner tete a tete, I believe," Sherlock said, tucking the violin and bow away in their case. "This should be interesting. Has Mrs. Burton shared what's on the menu with you?"

"Oh, I know exactly," Halmsley said, grinning at last. "However, she threatened me with death and being whacked upside the head with a saucepan if I so much as breathe a word of it to you, so since I like living, I'll just let you be surprised, shall I?"

"Oh, all right," Sherlock said, pretending to be annoyed. "I'll be surprised."

Halmsley nodded and turned to the door, but once in the doorway, he turned back and looked at Sherlock. "You know, Mr. Rowlesden is really happy with how you've settled in."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, his smile fixed. "Is he, now?"

Halmsley nodded. "I can tell you've settled in, but I think Mr. Rowlesden is an idiot if he thinks you've settled down."

Something about Halmsley's face told Sherlock a great deal. "I think he's making a very large mistake if he thinks that about either of us, Halmsley."

Again, Halmsley nodded. "I agree with you. I'll bring you some clothes in about twenty minutes. I'll see you then, Mr. Holmes."

After Halmsley was gone, Sherlock smiled and sat back in his bed. Yes, Mr. Rowlesden would be very foolish to think either of them had settled down and accepted their fates. He would be quite a great fool, indeed.

* * *

Dinner that night was an inspiration to gourmets and gourmands alike all over the world. It was a formal French meal, and when Sherlock arrived at the table (dressed in a nice suit, of course) there was a basket of bread on the table and chilled wine waiting. He and Rowlesden sat down and Halmsley served each course, disappearing back to the kitchen in between courses. For an appetizer there was baked Camembert with toasted baguette slices, and following that was lobster bisque. For a main dish there was duck confit with new potatoes and French beans, and for dessert, of course, was his favorite creme brulee. He ate everything that was offered to him and after dessert he sat back with a cup of hot chocolate, stuffed to the top and completely satisfied.

"That was quite good," Sherlock sighed, taking a sip of chocolate. "And...thank you...for getting me out of the infirmary for a while. I was starting to feel as if I had a bad case of cabin fever."

"Sometimes staying in the infirmary can be good, but being in there too long can actually be detrimental," Rowlesden said. "Dr. Black says you are doing well with your regime and I am glad to see that you've settled down. Dr. Black says that it won't be too long before your foot his healed, so I would like you to think of activities you would like to do that your foot has been preventing you from enjoying until now."

Sherlock sat up, interested. "Hmm. What would be allowed?"

"With enough preparation, almost anything," Rowlesden said. "We have a stable, so you could go horseback riding. There is a large enough pond so that you could go boating or fishing, and I like to think that the grounds make a pleasant walking area. We can also arrange excursions for you if we prepare. There's the theater, the cinema, amusement parks, shopping expeditions, dinners out, parties here at the house...whatever takes your fancy. We can arrange such things for you."

His mind was in a whirl. Instead of keeping him captive in this house _they planned to take him out_? As captors, they weren't the brightest colors in the box, but really, that was to his advantage. He hid his excitement as best he could. If Rowlesden noticed anything, then he would merely think that Sherlock was excited at the prospect of a little fun. "That sounds...well, wonderful. May I put a little thought to it before I decide?"

Rowlesden smiled and give a little nod. "Certainly. As soon as you know what you would like to do, just tell me or Halmsley, and we can see to the arrangements."

Sherlock smiled, his mind buzzing with glee. "Thank you. I'll be sure to let you know."


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Sherlock spent the next few days thinking. He didn't mention the promised outing, but he did think about it a great deal. The reasons for thinking about it were self-evident, and while he thought, he pursued his usual activities of reading, watching television, and playing the violin. Rowlesden didn't seem inclined to hurry him to a decision about the coming excursion and Sherlock was in no hurry to make one. When he chose, it had be just...right.

Two days after his dinner with Rowlesden, Dr. Black announced him fit to leave the infirmary, provided he kept eating and exercising his foot. It was a relief to be out of the infirmary and back in the room he'd been given. Dr. Black even provided him with a special boot that would support his foot so he could walk without a noticeable hobble. He celebrated by exploring the entire house, stopping now and then to rest his foot. He located Rowlesden's bedroom, the central library, the servants' quarters where Mrs. Burton slept, a painting studio, another bedroom that was inhabited (although by whom he couldn't guess) and best of all, he located the kitchen. It was a treat to see Mrs. Burton's face when walked into the kitchen, and in short order, after many exclamations of surprise and joy from that worthy lady, he found himself seated at the table with a snack in front of him. He was more than happy to sit there and work on consuming a custard parfait while Mrs. Burton chattered away to him.

"I've heard from Halmsley that Mr. Rowlesden is planning an excursion for you," Mrs. Burton said, giving his shoulder a fond pat. "You must be so excited! Everyone they bring here to help get better always enjoys such outings!"

Sherlock suddenly found himself wondering if she didn't realize that Mr. Rowlesden's guests were kidnappees. "Yes, he told me the other night. He said that I only have to let him know what I would like to do and then he will plan it. Is there anything you would suggest?"

Mrs. Burton tilted her head to the side, momentarily letting alone the batter she was mixing in a bowl. "Hmm. Well, the gardens at the squire's house are lovely, but I like to think ours are in better taste. He didn't have Richie working on his, after all. There's the shopping arcade in town, and you can find almost anything there."

A shopping arcade would be crowded. Hmm. That seemed...promising. "Shopping arcade?"

"Oh, yes," Mrs. Burton said. "Used to be just a row of old shops on one side, but a few years ago the town fathers decided to make the other side of the street into shops as well and enclose it all to make an arcade. There's lots of shops and restaurants there, and people love going."

"What sort of shops are there?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, there's the clothing shops, one for men and one for women. They look like expensive places, but it's only the decor that's expensive. Nice clothes and shoes and things; I do all my shopping for clothes at Merrow's. I think Mr. Rowlesden buys things for Halmsley from Wickham's. There's a discount store for those whose pockets don't stretch to those stores called Nonny's. Aside from the clothing shops there is a bridal shop, and then there's a toy shop. Oh, the children swarm that place, let me tell you." She went back to mixing the batter. "After that, there's the tobacconist and the wine shop, the bookshop, the coffee and tea room, the music shop, the housewares and sundries shop, an art supply shop, a jeweller's, and then there's the restaurants. They have a French cafe called Le Blanc and let me tell you, the food there is awful. They charge a pretty penny for it, too, but it makes a nice place for young men to take their lady friends on a weekend, but there's not much else that's special about it. After that is the family-style pub."

"A family-style pub?" Sherlock echoed. "A pub that serves children?"

"Eh, it's a restaurant made to look like a pub and there's a bar, but families can eat there and the parents can have a bit of drink for dinner if they like," Mrs. Burton explained.

"Oh, that sort of pub," Sherlock said. "I see. How is the food there?"

"It's good pub fare, all of it well-prepared. Frankly, the food there is better than at Le Blanc. The menu changes from day to day and it's always posted outside on a board, so you can see what's on offer. On Fridays they'll have a fish fry on the menu and sometimes the line is out the door. Everybody wants fish and chips on a Friday."

"So there's Le Blanc and the pub restaurant...what's it's name?"

"O'Leary's."

O'Leary's. How predictable. "Is there anything else down there worth a look?"

"There's Sweeting's. It's a shop that sells gourmet chocolate and ice cream and soda fountain drinks. You can sit down in Sweeting's and order whatever you like and the ice cream is all hand-mixed. It's worth a stop for sure, if you're thinking of visiting the arcade."

Sherlock filed all of that information away for later. As the day went by he thought about it some more and decided that unless something else presented itself, he very well might end up choosing the arcade for his first trip out.

* * *

He usually slept well at night nowadays, despite his circumstances, but two nights later he was having the worst time getting to sleep. He tossed and turned for a while, tried reading, and then thought about getting a warm drink. Rowlesden had told him not to wander the house at night and to ring for Halmsley if he wanted anything, but surely just once would be all right. The thought of a cup of hot chocolate decided him and he extracted himself from the bed (it was sometimes difficult to leave the bed when he was tired; it was so blasted comfortable) pulled on a robe and slippers, and made his careful way toward the elevator. He was halfway to the elevator when a clatter from the far end of the house made him whip around, looking for assailants. It sounded as if it had come from Mr. Rowlesden's room at the far end of the house.

Sherlock didn't think before acting. He just acted. He headed straight for Mr. Rowlesden's room, but when he was almost there the door opened. If he was caught, then he could count on being confined to his room for a while and kiss any chance of a trip goodbye. He ducked under a table and prayed that the shadows and the table's cloth would keep him hidden.

Halmsley strode down the hall and toward's Sherlock's hiding place, the sound of his steps and breathing letting Sherlock know that the house steward was furious.

"Where are you going?" Rowlesden demanded, coming up behind Halmsley, stretching out a hand.

Halmsley whirled, knocking Rowlesden's hand away. "Don't touch me!"

"You're angry, Jamie, and I want to know why," Rowlesden insisted, standing his ground.

"Oh, you want to know why?" Halmsley repeated. "Fine, I'll tell you. You rang for me in the middle of the night not because you needed me but because you wanted to get me into your bed! I told you when you first brought me here; I'll never, ever do that. What made you think that I wanted to do something like that now?"

"You were so happy earlier when I gave you the news about your sister," Rowlesden said. "The way you smiled...I thought that maybe, if I invited you, you would want to. I thought that maybe you were ready to let me show you how I feel. At least, that was what I thought until you bit me."

Halmsley snorted. "Of course I bit you; you were trying to shove your tongue in my mouth! You know my conditions for staying here, Rowlesden! You outlined them yourself!"

Rowlesden gasped as if hurt. "Jamie..."

"Don't call me that! Ever again! You hear me? Call me Halmsley! That is all I am to you and all I ever will be! Stop getting your hopes up! You may have me now, but you won't have me forever! Sooner or later, I'll figure out how Lacey and I will escape from you, and then I won't waste any time in letting the police know where you are and what you've done!"

Sherlock could see Rowlesden's stance change. "Be careful, now, young man," he said, his voice suddenly sounding menacing. "Threats only make me angry. You don't want me to tell your sister anything, do you?"

Halmsley was silent.

"One of my conditions was that you and I spend time together, but you manage to limit it a great deal, don't you? Busy with your work, and so on?" Rowlesden sounded so menacing that Sherlock felt a shiver of fear for Halmsley run up his spine. "I've been tolerant up until now, Halmsley, but I think I'm about to insist on the entire fulfillment of that condition from now on, a condition that you should have been adhering to for the past five years. Three nights a week of my exclusive company."

Halmsley took a step back, evidently seeing something on Rowlesden's face that made him nervous. "What are you hoping to accomplish by making me do that?"

Rowlesden chuckled. "Have you ever noticed animals, Halmsley? How they lose their wildness and eventually become used to humans after they're captured? How they accept the protection and attention from a certain human? How they eventually begin to choose to go to that human when called and how they choose to stay with that human? Eventually, their sun rises and falls on that human being, the person who had originally captured them in the first place. It's interesting, Halmsley, don't you think?"

"You think you can_ tame_ me?"

"Tame? No." Rowlesden sounded vastly amused. "With enough work and attention, Halmsley, I'll be able to make you love me just as much as, if not more than, I love you now. The day you choose to come to me will be the happiest day of my life, my Jamie."

Halmsley turned and fled. Rowlesden let him go, let out a chuckle, and turned back to his room. Sherlock waited until he heard the door close, counted to two hundred, and then made his way back to his room as quietly as he could, all thoughts of hot chocolate forgotten. He felt cold and sick for Halmsley. What had his life been like since being brought here? Thoughts kept moving around and around in his head until the small hours of the morning, when he finally managed to fall asleep. When Halmsley brought him his tea tray later that morning, he found the detective so deeply asleep that it was doubtful if even a brass band would wake him. The butler, unaware of why Sherlock had slept in, checked on him several times throughout the morning and woke him with a brunch tray around eleven. Sherlock ate and drank, his mind still full of what he had witnessed the night before.

* * *

"I've decided," Sherlock said a week later at the breakfast table.

Rowlesden looked up from his newspaper. "Decided? Oh, about your outing?"

"Yes," Sherlock confirmed. "I would like to go shopping. Mrs. Burton says there's quite a shopping arcade in town, so I would like to see what it's like and perhaps pick up a few things. Would that be all right?"

Rowlesden smiled. "Of course. I'll just need the rest of the day to make preparations. Would you like to go the day after tomorrow?"

"Sounds lovely," Sherlock said. "I'm quite looking forward to it."

He didn't realize that part of the preparations to be made would include him. The next afternoon, Rowlesden called him downstairs to the conservatory, where a man was waiting. There was an actual barber's chair and his entire kit waiting with him, along with Rowlesden and Welling. Sherlock gave the goon a wide berth and looked at Rowlesden. "What's all this?"

"We have to alter your appearance some for your outing, and you're due for a hair cut, anyway," Rowlesden said. "This is Jean-Claude and he'll be working on you. Welling is here to give him a hand if needed."

Sherlock gave the stylist a look of trepidation and then glanced over the chair and...other things. He knew enough about makeup and hair dye and the like to realize that they weren't going to stop with cutting his hair. "Is this optional?"

"As long as you decide to forego the trip," Rowlesden said pleasantly. "Have you changed your mind?"

As an answer, Sherlock removed his jacket and sat down in the chair. Jean-Claude draped a cover around him, turned the chair so that his back was to the sink, and made the chair recline so he could start work on Sherlock's hair. Sherlock closed his eyes and let his mind wander while his hair was being worked on. First, Jean-Claude washed his hair, then he washed it again with something else. His hair was cut to just a touch shorter than he usually liked to have it cut, and then something was combed through his hair and allowed to sit for a while. A rinse, and then his hair was wrapped up in a towel to dry for a few minutes. Jean-Claude and Welling helped him wash his face and hands before they attacked with exfoliating cloths, and then...something...was patted onto his skin with a sponge. A damp cloth wiped whatever it was away, and when Sherlock glanced at his hand he saw the skin tone was a few shades darker than it usually was. He understood now why they were bothering with coloring his skin: with his usual skin tone, a spray tan would have looked ridiculous. The little bit of...was it dye?...made it look natural.

He got a surprise after that, for Rowlesden asked Jean-Claude to "see to his hands and feet." That meant a manicure and pedicure, of all things. Jean-Claude was careful with his injured foot and he actually enjoyed the massage that accompanied such work on his hands and feet. Once his hands and feet were done, the towel was removed from his hair, his hair blown dry and combed, and he was turned to face a mirror. He found himself staring. "Incredible." He was facing a man with wavy brown hair and sun-touched skin. The difference was incredible.

"The hair and skin dye will come off after a couple of hot showers, so be careful," Jean-Claude told him, removing the cover around his shoulders and attacking the same shoulders with a clothes brush a second later. "You'll need touch-ups each time you go out, unless you go out on consecutive days."

Sherlock left the chair and leaned in close to the mirror, still speechless at how different he looked. "I doubt anyone would recognize me. Not even John." What a thoroughly depressing thought.

"Have you ever worn contact lenses?" Rowlesden asked, holding out a white contact case.

"Ah, no," Sherlock admitted. "My vision's fine."

"These are a little more than corrective lenses," Rowlesden said as Sherlock took the case and opened it.

"So, my eyes are going to be...green?" That would be...well, different.

"Wait until you have them in, and then look at yourself," Rowlesden told him, handing him a pair of glasses. "You'll be even more impressed with the difference. That can wait for tomorrow, though. You'll wear these to alter your appearance further."

Sherlock felt his stomach sink. He'd hoped that someone would see him tomorrow, realize just who he was, and the hopefully alert the police, or better yet, John. He had a strong feeling that as soon as John knew where he was he would descend upon Rowlesden and his friends like Nemesis.

He was quite looking forward to it.

"Now that that's taken care of, please come with me," Rowlesden said. "I need to outline exactly what will be expected of you in terms of behavior tomorrow, and how you'll be escorted, and so on."

He took Sherlock to his study, and once again Sherlock found himself eyeing the computer and the phone. Just one call...just one!

"Welling and Meyers will be accompanying you into town tomorrow, as will Halmsley," Rowlesden told him once they were both seated. "Throughout the shopping arcade there will be other employees of mine and a few friends, and they will re-direct you back to where you're supposed to be should you happen to become...lost. Do you understand?"

Sherlock kept his face as impassive as possible. "Completely."

"I'm glad you do," Rowlesden said. "I don't foresee a problem tomorrow, which is a big relief to my mind. I hope you enjoy yourself. Now, do you have any questions?"

Sherlock thought about it and decided to ask. "If I happened to become lost...?"

"You won't remain lost for long," Rowlesden promised. "You can be sure of that. If you do happen to become lost, then when we find you, we will return here immediately, and there will be no further outings. I hope I've been clear."

"Crystal. That was my only question."

"I'm glad. Have a pleasant day, and I'll see you at dinner tonight."

Sherlock didn't wait around after being dismissed. He went outside to the east garden and thought. A cat even came out of the catmint, purring like a lawn mower, and for a while, it lay on his lap and allowed him to pet it. It would have been nice to sit there and think of nothing for a while, but his mind wouldn't cooperate with him for too long. Each time he tried to think of nothing, his mind would circle back around to his coming outing and how he was going to be escorted and how it would be almost impossible to slip away from his handlers. If he took this chance to escape and was caught, then he would never have a chance to get away again. If he didn't take this chance...but if he was caught...

An hour passed and he was no closer to a solution. What could he do? What did he dare do? He already knew that Rowlesden and his wretched friends had a great number of resources at their disposal, but surely...surely...

He went in to dinner when it was time and kept the conversation with Rowlesden light and on any topic but his coming outing. He went up to his room after a few games of chess with Rowlesden and spent about twenty minutes just pacing, his mind working furiously. What could he do? What could he do? There had to be_ something_ he could do! Something!

When he went to bed he still had no answers. He was surprised when he started to dream of his mind palace. The same walls and floors that he saw each time he went there were there to greet him. He smiled in his sleep, wandering through the familiar rooms that he knew so well, greeting memories and remembered places that he could remember feeling safe in. He walked here and there, feeling calm for the first time in ages when a step through a door brought him into...Mycroft's office.

"Oh," he groaned. "Really? I have to come here? What would be the point?"

The chair behind the desk spun to face him. "There's always a point, little brother," Mycroft said at his most condescending. "You just have to figure out what it is."

"This is my dream, and I'm going to decide where I go in it," Sherlock retorted, turning to go back out the door that had brought him there. He groaned again as soon as he saw that it had disappeared. "Oh, that's just not fair!" He turned back to Mycroft and pointed at the space where the door had been. "Put it back!"

Mycroft gave him a smile. "Oh, come now, Sherlock. Didn't you just say this was your dream? If the door has disappeared, then you must have made it disappear on your own. Why do you think you might have done that?"

"I didn't!" Sherlock insisted.

"Use your brain, Sherlock," Mycroft told him. "You might not have made the conscious decision to be here, but your unconscious mind might have decided. Do you think that's likely?"

Sherlock glared at his brother. "Right now, my entire mind is unconscious, isn't it?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes and sighed. "Don't be obtuse, Sherlock. Think."

"Don't you think I haven't?" Sherlock demanded. "I've looked at the whole problem from every angle I can think of! If you have a better idea, brother dear, I'd love to hear it!"

"You don't need my help," Mycroft said placidly. "You pride yourself on being logical, but your fear and worry are getting in the way of your thinking. All the answers are already in your head, Sherlock. You just have to find them."

"I've tried!"

"No, you haven't," Mycroft insisted. "Think, Sherlock. Like I said, the answers are already in your mind."

Sherlock groaned and started to pace. "I can't find them!"

"You haven't looked," Mycroft insisted, his assistant suddenly beside him. She handed him a stack of letters and disappeared. "Just look, Sherlock. I'm sure you'll find the answers."

Sherlock kept pacing, back and forth, back and forth. He was on his fifth time around the office when his eyes landed on the letters his brother held in hands. He looked at Mycroft.

"I knew you'd find something," Mycroft said quietly.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he was back in his room, his heart pounding. He practically jumped out of bed, sprinted as best he could across the room, and opened up his desk. Idly he glanced out his window and saw that the sky was just beginning to get light. He did not have much time to do what he had to do.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Sherlock woke up around nine the next morning, still fatigued from last night's work. Despite being tired, he felt full of energy, despite being fully aware that being in such a state was a paradox. Today he would be making his move, and by the end of the week, one way or another, he would be out of this place and back in Baker Street where he belonged.

He got up, showered, dressed, grabbed his jacket, and headed downstairs to breakfast. He passed Welling on the stairs and gave the man a wide margin, just in case. He was almost to the bottom of the stairs when Halmsley appeared, a faint line of worry creasing his forehead.

"There you are," said the house steward. "I was beginning to get worried. You didn't even wake up when I brought you your morning tea. Are you all right?"

"Oh, I'm just fine," Sherlock assured him. "I just felt like sleeping a little late, that's all. Any breakfast left?"

That and a hopeful look from Sherlock made Halmsley smile. "There's plenty. You've met Mrs. Burton. Did you really think there wouldn't be enough food left for you? She loves to feed people."

"Just checking," Sherlock said, making full speed to the dining room. "See you later, Halmsley."

The dining room was deserted, but there was still a place setting for him and the sideboard was still full of food. Sherlock helped himself to a thick slice of ham, fried potatoes, mushrooms, and toast with juice and tea before settling down and tucking in. He finished off the entire plate and even went back for seconds on ham and mushrooms. He was just finishing his second cup of tea when Rowlesden arrived.

"Ah, good morning, Mr. Holmes," Rowlesden said. "Sleep well?"

"Almost too well," Sherlock told him. "For some reason, I just didn't want to crawl out of bed this morning. I'm turning into a perfect sybarite, not to mention a slug that likes to loll about in bed. My apologies if my late rising caused any difficulties."

"Not at all," Rowlesden said, waving Sherlock's apology aside. "Are you eager for your day out?"

"Very," Sherlock said, allowing his eagerness to show. "While one can't fault the accommodations, the service, or the food, you have to admit that being in this house day after day is almost like being buried alive."

"To one who is used to the hustle and bustle of London, I don't doubt that it would seem so," Rowlesden said. "If you've done with breakfast, then please come to my study. I have to let you know what arrangements we've made on your behalf."

Sherlock finished the last bit of his tea and followed Rowlesden to his study. He took a seat when bidden and settled back to listen to what Rowlesden had to say.

"I'm sure I don't have to tell you that any attempt to run off will result in your immediate return here and no further outings of any sort during the whole of your stay," Rowlesden began. "However, if you give us no cause for concern, then there will be no problems. Welling, Meyers, and Halmsley will be with you, of course, and there will be other employees of mine in town helping your escort keep an eye on you. They'll be watching you closely, and any attempt on your part to draw attention to yourself or to pass a message to someone will mean that you'll return here straight away."

Sherlock told himself that this man could not possibly know about how he planned to communicate with John. It simply wasn't possible that Rowlesden would know, unless the man could read minds. If that was the case, then Mycroft would probably want to hire him, and if it were really the case, then he, Sherlock, would be leaving England altogether. Mycroft having a person with that sort of ability did not bear thinking about.

"Now, since you are going shopping, I've opened a charge account for you under the name of Shawn Hayes."

"Shawn Hayes?" Sherlock echoed. How unoriginal...and unremarkable. People tended to remember the name Sherlock Holmes because it was so unique. 'Shawn Hayes' would be easy to forget and, thus, was forgettable. People in town certainly wouldn't remember him due to his alias.

"Yes, I thought it would be easy for you to remember. Now, you'll have to answer to it while you're in town," he said, taking out a credit card and handing it to Sherlock. "There is no spending limit on this card, so spend as much as you like. Indulge yourself. I would suggest O'Leary's if you want lunch in town; the food there is quite good, but don't tell Mrs. Burton I said so."

Sherlock felt a smile start. "It's okay; she shares your opinion of O'Leary's."

Rowlesden chuckled. "Well, that's good to know. The car will be leaving at eleven, so come to the front hall then. Do you have any questions?"

Sherlock thought about it. "What if I see someone I know?"

"How would that be possible?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I don't know. A lot of people know me, so it stands to reason that one of them might be in town today. What if someone recognizes me and draws attention to me? Would that be held against me?"

Rowlesden shook his head. "No. You can't do anything about it if someone raises a hue and cry, can you? However, if you see someone you know, then it would necessitate a move. If you think someone has recognized you, let your escorts know right away. If you think someone recognizes you and you choose to do nothing...well, then you would be in trouble."

"So noted," Sherlock said, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair in thought. "Is there anything else?"

"If you should want to go somewhere in town outside of the shopping arcade, let one of your escorts know. They can contact me to let me know what's going on and to obtain permission. Aside from that, I can think of nothing else that you would need to know. Any further questions?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No. You've been very...clear."

"Then have a pleasant trip, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock shot out of the study as if he were a child dismissed from school. He went outside for a while to the east garden. Since that debacle of an escape with Welling and Meyers, he'd been careful to stay "in-bounds," so he kept himself to the house and the east garden. By this point he had memorized every plant in the garden and had even named the cat that tended to inhabit the catmint. He figured John would be proud to have something named for him.

After some time spent strolling about in the garden, he headed back into the house through the kitchen door. Mrs. Burton was there, weaving culinary magic, and Sherlock caught the scent of thyme and sage. "Those smells...are those for dinner?"

Mrs. Burton laughed and waved at him with an apron. "Indeed they are, young man. Why not put your deductive powers to work and tell me what I'm making? You're supposed to be a famous detective, after all."

Sherlock grinned, always up for a challenge. He glanced over the ingredients on the table, the items on the counter, the empty roasting pan on the stove, and drew his conclusions. "Roast chicken. I'll bet you have several marinating in the refrigerator right now."

She clapped her hands, an audience of one giving applause. "Very good. There will be roast chicken tonight, along with jacket potatoes and greens." She glanced at the clock. "You know, if you're leaving at eleven, then you have exactly fifteen minutes to get ready."

Sherlock gave her a smile and hurried up to his room. He changed clothes, pulling on jeans, loafers, and a green long-sleeved T shirt. He ran a comb through his hair, put in the green contacts, and perched the glasses on his face. When he studied himself in the mirror he grudgingly admitted that Rowlesden and his friends knew what they were about when they changed someone's appearance. The green contacts and the glasses and brown hair made him look like someone completely different. He did not look like Sherlock Holmes at all. Instead, he looked more and more like...well, like Shawn Hayes. He fought down a cold shiver that ran up his spine and pulled on the jacket he'd picked out in the dark hours of the morning. A few twitches of his shoulders and it settled into place. He checked himself in the mirror one more time and smiled. You couldn't notice anything unusual about the jacket at all, even when you knew to look for it. He doubted Welling and Meyers would notice anything, nor would Rowlesden. Perfect.

He slipped the credit card into his pocket, added a packet of pocket kleenex just in case they were needed, and headed downstairs. He was in the front hall with five minutes to spare and began pacing, suddenly anxious. What if they decided to call off the whole trip? What would he do then? What if they suspected what he was going to try to do? How dire would the fallout be? He shuddered to think what would happen if...

"Ah, someone's ready to go," Halmsley said, heading down the stairs toward Sherlock. Halmsley looked him up and down and grinned. "You look very different."

Sherlock returned Halmsley's smile. "It may sound crazy, but I feel different. I know I look very different."

"Your mother might recognize you, or your best friend," Halmsley offered. "I doubt anyone else will, though. Maybe your brother, if he were paying attention and the light was right. I have to admit that Jean-Claude knows his stuff."

Sherlock blinked. "Jean-Claude? Oh, right. The stylist."

Halmsley nodded. "No matter how often I tell myself not to be impressed, he impresses me each time he works his magic. He cuts my hair each time it needs it, and I always look like 'Halmsley,' instead of myself."

Sherlock's ears sat up and took notice. Halmsley had said _I look like 'Halmsley'_. What did that mean? It was fully possible that Halmsley wasn't his real name at all...but why would he go by a different name? Rowlesden's orders? Halmsley's choice? Hmm.

Halmsley stood near Sherlock, clearly waiting for their escort. For a change, Halmsley was not in the formal suit that Sherlock had come to think of as Halmsley's uniform. Instead, he wore black slacks and a blue button-down shirt. The shade, he'd noticed, made Halmsley's eyes stand out. He could remember Mrs. Burton stating that Rowlesden had purchased clothes on Halmsley's behalf from Wickham's in town, so was this one of the outfits that Rowlesden had chosen?

Welling and Meyers arrived then and he and Halmsely were escorted out to where a car waited. Sherlock slid into a seat, fastened his safety belt, and waited. He was finally going to be able to see something other than the house and gardens! He didn't want to admit it to himself, but his mind had gone numb for a while. There was so little there to challenge him that he'd almost forgotten what mental stimulation had felt like. Anything new would be bound to have a positive effect. Even though the windows were tinted, as they headed down the drive and out the gate at the front of the grounds, he was plastered to the window next to him, taking in everything he could see. It was typical English countryside, but because of his long captivity, the colors seemed more vibrant and fresher than he was used to seeing. They passed several sheep farms and a dairy farm and even some housing developments. He saw signs that named several villages, but his knowledge of England outside the capital paled in comparison to his knowledge of London. He was now regretting that he hadn't learned more village names before this. If he'd known the names of England's small towns better, then he might have a better idea of where he was being held captive.

They reached the village after a half-hour of driving and Sherlock wanted to jump out of the car and see everything at once. Instead, he forced himself to remain calm and reminded himself that he had to behave in a dignified manner. He could do nothing that would make his escort uneasy and thus, make them want to end the trip. No, he had to be very, very careful.

"Now, I know Mr. Rowlesden has been over the rules with both of you, so I'm not going to bother to repeat every single rule he told you," Meyers said. "You're to stick with us. If you want to go somewhere, tell us, and we'll take you. No going off on your own. Either of you do anything we don't like, and we'll go right back to the house." Meyers turned and stared at Sherlock. "Got it?"

"Completely," Sherlock said evenly.

Welling fastened Halmsley with a look. "How about you, Jamie?"

"Call me Halmsley, for heaven's sake," Halmsley sighed. "And yes, I know what will happen if I step out of bounds and so on. Could we go already?"

Sherlock filed that little exchange away for later. If one were to draw premature conclusions, then it would appear that Halmsley was as much a prisoner as he was. Quite intriguing, that. His behavior, however, didn't make sense, certainly when Sherlock had first arrived. When Sherlock had first met him, Halmsley had seemed completely devoted to Rowlesden. Why was that? What would make a prisoner so devoted to his captor? Stockholm syndrome couldn't explain all of that, unless there were truly incredible circumstances at work.

"Where would you boys like to go first?" Welling asked as they left the car park.

"I'd like to go to Wickham's first," Sherlock said.

"I'm fine with Wickham's," Halmsley said. "It's close."

"Well, let's go, then," Welling said. "And remember what Meyers told you."

Sherlock saw Halmsley roll his eyes and he seconded the expression. It was unfortunate that neither of their guard dogs noticed.

Wickham's was everything that Mrs. Burton had said and more. The best way to describe the place was as a store for gentlemen. Sherlock spent at least an hour looking at all the clothes and shoes for sale and immediately began planning outfits. The cut and style of everything was exactly to his taste and after a half-hour of picking and choosing and trying on he had five suits of clothes for himself, two new pairs of shoes, an all-weather jacket, and three jumpers for John, all of them brand name and expensive, rather than the cheaper Wickham's label. It didn't matter that it all added up to more than he spent on clothes in a year; it wasn't his money he was spending, after all, and Rowlesden had told him to indulge himself. It was with a distinct feeling of glee that he handed over the credit card at the register. He saw Welling's eyes widen at the total and wondered if the man were about to have a heart attack.

"Here you are, Mr. Hayes, the clerk asked, handing Sherlock his receipt. "Did you wish these wrapped to carry with you, or would you like them delivered?"

"Delivered, please," Meyers said. "None of us fancy being a draft horse today."

All Halmsley had purchased had been a soft leather messenger bag. Once Halmsley's purchase had been wrapped up and marked for delivery, they left the shop.

"Where to now, gents?" Meyers asked as they headed down the arcade.

"Merrow's, if Mr. Holmes doesn't mind," Halmsley said. "There are a few things I want to pick up."

Both guards stared at him. "Merrow's? That's a ladies' shop!"

"And it sells what I'm looking for," Halmsley said evenly.

Both Welling and Meyers looked as if they'd rather die than set foot in Merrow's, but Halmsley insisted and Sherlock stated that he didn't mind going in the slightest, so they visited Merrow's. Once inside the shop, Halmsley took out a list from his pocket and found a shop assistant right away. Within a half-hour Halmsley had found a pink pleated skirt and white sweater set, white stockings, shoes that matched the skirt, and a set of hair...items. Sherlock wasn't sure what they were called, but they matched the rest of the outfit. He supposed that the whole thing would look rather...well, charming on a young girl.

"For my sister," Halmsley said in response to the assistant when she asked who he was shopping for. "They're having a spring social at her school in a few weeks and I wanted to surprise her."

The assistant looked at Halmsley's chosen outfit thoughtfully. "How old is she?"

"She'll be thirteen in two months."

"That outfit would be fine for classes or church or visiting, but not for a school social," the assistant told Halmsley, going quickly to a rack of dresses. She looked at several and then handed Halmsley a Caribbean blue dress. Rhinestones covered the bodice and cascaded across the sleeves and down the knee-length skirt, making one think of ocean waves. "This is much better. With her hair done up with some rhinestone pins and a matching ribbon, she'll be absolutely gorgeous."

Halmsley stared at the dress. "Isn't it rather...grown up?"

"At thirteen, most girls are starting to think of themselves as young ladies," the assistant explained. "It's even odds that her friends at school will be wearing similar things."

Halmsley looked at both outfits, his indecision plain. "I suppose I could send both..."

Sherlock spotted the tag on the dress and felt a smile twitch at the corners of his mouth. Two hundred pounds. Oh, Rowlesden was going to regret letting the two of them go shopping. After locating some shoes to match the dress and some rhinestone hair pins, Halmsley declared himself ready to go.

"Oh, thank God," Sherlock heard Meyers mutter. All of the femininity in the shop must have been getting to him.

Welling checked his watch once they were outside. "Okay, it's one-thirty. Time for lunch."

"O'Leary's?" Halmsley said before Sherlock could suggest it. "There's shepherd's pie today."

Sherlock felt his mouth water. "Sounds good to me."

"As long as I can sit down for a while," Meyers said.

"Aw, are we wearing you out?" Halmsley joked.

"Shut up, Jamie."

"Halmsley, for crying out loud!"

"Enough," Welling said, cutting them both off. "Let's get something to eat before we kill each other."

_Now there's an idea_, Sherlock thought. All he and Halmsley had to do was just wind their two guard dogs up, step back, and watch them snap and snarl each other to death. He kept the thought to himself, though, and they joined the lunch rush at O'Leary's. He had an excellent shepherd's pie made with beef and a whiskey bread pudding for dessert, along with coffee. While he ate, he reflected on the number of Rowlesden's friends he'd seen in town today. He'd seen Ms. Lewis several times already, along with Mr. Porter and one of his chess opponents. It was disconcerting to see them, to say the least.

After eating he felt in the mood for somewhere quiet, so he suggested the bookshop as their next stop. Halmsley leapt on the idea and it wasn't long before they were in a neat little bookshop called Scribe's. It was a small store, but it was crammed with floor to ceiling bookcases, all of them filled with books that beckoned. Sherlock soon lost himself in the shelves, picking out books that the library at the house had lacked and books he'd been wanting to read. He actually found a few others that he'd enjoyed before, so he included them. He even picked two that he'd seen John reading, just to see what they were like. He had two stacks of twelve books each by the time he was done choosing, but Halmsley put him to shame. Halmsley brought two armfuls of books to the counter, and if the titles were anything to go by, then Halmsely's reading tastes were eclectic, to say the least. He hadn't thought that Halmsley had any interest in butterflies or dragonflies or birds, but there were books on all of them. Even more interesting was the book on Slavic languages and the three books on art. Two books on mathematics, three on science, four books of folktales from various parts of the world, novels, biographies, travel books...Hmm.

After Scribe's, they visited Flourish, the art supply shop. Halmsley bought a great deal of art supplies, but he did ask that a set of watercolor pencils and a pad of watercolor paper be wrapped up by themselves. Sherlock had a strong feeling that those were gifts for Halmsely's sister. If Halmsley was talented in art, then it was fully possible that his sister was, too. Jack and Jill's was the toy shop, and that was where they went next. The shop was an absolute Wonderland for children, with all the toys, games, puzzles, dolls, and books just waiting for them. Halmsley bought two jigsaw puzzles, a word-scramble game, a few brain teaser toys, and a small plush butterfly. After that they visited the Jewel Box, the town jeweler. Halmsley picked out a necklace and earring set for his sister that would match the dress, and they headed back out into the sunshine, all of them more than ready for a break.

"I'd almost forgotten how crazy you get when you shop, Halmsley," Meyers said with a sigh. "It's starting to come back, now, though. Please tell me you've had enough."

"We have to go to Sweeting's," Halmsley insisted. "Mr...ah, Hayes...has never been there."

"They have chairs at Sweeting's," Welling reminded Meyers.

Meyers considered it. "All right, then, let's go."

Sweeting's name was well-deserved. The very air around the shop was thick with the delicious aroma of chocolate and all things sweet. Sherlock felt his mouth water as the full scent enveloped him. A person could breathe the air and live on it alone, he was sure! Inside, there were two long freezers along the walls, each of them full of tubs of different flavors of ice cream. Shelves on the far wall held bins of all sorts of candies and chocolates, and scoops and scales on the end of the shelves along with handy boxes and bags encourage customers to choose and pack their own candy. Sherlock filled an entire box with nothing but milk-chocolate vanilla creams, which were his favorite filled chocolate, and filled another box with a little bit of everything. Once he'd paid for the candy, he put some serious thought into what he would get. Halmsley had settled in happily with a root beer float and Sherlock decided on something called a white cow, a concoction made with vanilla ice cream and flavored syrup and milk. Welling and Meyers both just had soda, both of them looking exhausted.

"How does that friend of yours keep up with you?" Welling asked Sherlock. "He must spend all of his time knackered."

"Not really, he gets plenty of rest," Sherlock said. "Whenever we're working, though, I make sure he gets plenty of tea and coffee. Sometimes...well, more than once I've given him really strong tea and coffee."

"Ah, you're crazy," Meyers said. "I always knew it. That's just proof. What are you doing, spiking his drink?"

"I told you, it's nothing more than strong tea and coffee."

"Sure it is."

Sherlock looked at Halmsley. "I'm not going to get a fair hearing at this table, am I?"

Halmsley shook his head, smiling. "Nope."

"Blast."

Talk wandered into other subjects and Sherlock asked where the bathroom was. Welling escorted him, and he and Welling rejoined the table a few minutes later. Once he and Halmsley were finished with their fountain drinks, Welling and Meyers suggested that they return to the house. Sherlock found himself agreeing, and later, once he was in the car, he found himself slipping into a little doze. His thoughts went back to the letter he'd left in the changing room at Wickham's...the letter he'd left in O'Leary's washroom...the one he'd dropped behind the counter at Scribe's...the one on a shelf of books at Jack and Jill's...and the one in the washroom at Sweeting's. If luck was with him, then all of them would find their way to John.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Sherlock spent a few tense days after his shopping trip, reading his new books and trying his best to relax. He was glad that no one noticed his agitation when he had another check-up with Dr. Black, who declared his foot completely healed and his weight to be above goal.

"How much above goal?" Sherlock asked. He had no idea how much he weighed since the doctor never allowed him to see the scale. He did know that he'd put on weight since his clothes no longer hung on him as much and the sights of tendons and muscle beneath his skin were not as pronounced.

Dr. Black waved the question away. "Not to worry. You're doing fine. If you keep eating well, we'll be able to call a trainer in for you to get you back into shape. You've lost a lot of muscle tone over the past six months. We have pictures of you from then and we can look at you now and there is a noticeable difference. You've not been exercising or taking care of yourself, so that was bound to happen. You'll be amazed how much better you feel once you start exercising again."

"I've been exercising," Sherlock protested. He'd made sure of it, too. He did plenty of walking around the grounds and the house, and then of course there had been the exercises that Dr. Black had taught him while he'd been ill, and at least every other day he went for a swim.

"I meant really exercising and making an effort...working out. You haven't done that, have you?"

"I've never really needed to," Sherlock admitted. "I was busy enough and I didn't eat much and..."

"You'll notice the difference in how you feel," Dr. Black said as soon as Sherlock had trailed off. "It won't take more than a few weeks. I feel confident that I can clear you for more activity now. Make sure that you spend some of each day outside. I would recommend either walking or riding. Rowlesden has already agreed to give you free run of the grounds. Walking and riding will exercise your whole body and get it ready for more activity later."

He didn't wait long to take Dr. Black's advice. The next day he raided his wardrobe and found a suitable riding outfit, boots, and gloves tucked away in the drawers. He headed down to the stable and met the man there who looked after the horses. Rupert was a gruff, grizzled older man with a squint who really preferred the company of horses and it was clear that there was nothing he did not know about them. He looked Sherlock over and selected a horse for him to ride after fitting him for a riding helmet.

"This lad is right for you. His name's Jumper," Rupert said, leading a gray gelding to the mounting block. "His manners are good and I can tell you haven't ridden much recently, so he won't give you any trouble. Let me see you mount. I'll hold the reins."

Sherlock stepped onto the mounting block, slipped his left foot into the stirrup, laid his left hand on Jumper's crest, and swung his right leg over the saddle. Once he was seated he slipped his right foot into the stirrup and took the reins. He put his heels down and at Rupert's request he nudged the horse away from the mounting block and out into the riding ring. He rode at the walk, the trot, and the canter before Rupert declared himself satisfied with Sherlock's seat and ability to stay in the saddle and handle the horse.

"Well done, young man," Rupert said, opening the gate for him. "Off you go, and have a good ride."

He had forgotten how much fun it was to ride. He'd done a lot of it when he'd been at school, but he'd gotten out of the habit after moving out on his own. It took his whole body and concentration to follow along with the horse and stay in the saddle. Doing something that engaged only his body freed his mind to think. He thought about his situation, his life these past weeks, and the letters he'd sent to John the day before. How long would it be before they arrived? How long would it be before John read them and figured out where he was? How long before his closest friend...indeed, his only friend...came to help him?

Riding a horse had to be the closest to freedom he'd come in weeks. He could ride anywhere in the grounds, and if there was a chance...was it possible he could get past the wall and ride to one of the houses or the village? If he could do that, then he could alert the police as to who he was. If he did that, then Lestrade and John would come down upon Rowlesden like avenging angels. He was so taken with the idea that he neared the closest stile and began to wonder if Jumper could jump it. Yes, it looked like it. He was about to take the horse back when light reflecting off of something to his right drew his attention. Of course. There was a camera posted on top of the wall there, and it was focused on him. Sighing, he gave one last look to the freedom that beckoned beyond the wall and turned Jumper back toward the house. He wouldn't get far if he jumped the stile. A car was still faster than a horse, and he couldn't risk it.

After that morning ride, he made a point of going out at least once a day on Jumper. Rupert seemed to have a sixth sense as to when Sherlock was going to show up for a ride and he always had Jumper groomed and tacked up and ready to go. After his ride Sherlock often helped with grooming Jumper again and feeding and watering him. More than once he sneaked carrots, apples, and sugar cubes from the kitchen and shared them with the horses once Rupert had given his permission for such treats.

The stable groom was habitually taciturn, and he did not manage to get him to talk much. He did, however, find out why Rupert worked for Rowlesden and why he was so darned loyal to the madman. Sherlock had remarked that Rowlesden had to be crazy and Rupert had taken immediate offense.

"Here now, lad," Rupert had said quickly, his face becoming red. "I won't hear anything against Mr. Rowlesden while you're in my stable, you hear?"

Such vehemence surprised him. "Might I ask why?"

"Mr. Rowlesden is a good man."

That had been too much for Sherlock. "Rupert, do you know why I'm here? How I was brought here? Rowlesden hired a bunch of men to kidnap me, and I've been held here as a prisoner ever since! Does a kidnapper sound like a good man to you?"

"If he's brought you here, then he had his reasons," Rupert insisted. "And Mr. Rowlesden is a good man. I swore to work for him until he no longer wanted me because of what he did for my granddaughter. A better girl you could never find in all the world, and when she needed a treatment to save her life and we couldn't get it done here, Mr. Rowlesden paid for it and arranged it all! Because of that, he's a good man, so I don't want to hear another word against him, understand?"

Due to Britain's healthcare system, almost all treatments were free. It must have been a very specialized treatment if it hadn't been offered. No wonder Rupert was so loyal! "I apologize. I shall keep such ill-considered opinions to myself in the future."

When he wasn't riding, he was inside the house reading, or wandering the grounds. More than once he found himself wandering close to the wall, staring at the freedom that was so close...so very close... but no. If he was going to escape, then he had to make sure that any attempt was successful. There was no margin for error there. If he attempted to escape and was caught, then he would not get another chance. They probably considered his first attempt as a manifestation of his rage-he had been very angry when he'd made the attempt-but he could not afford to allow his anger to rule his actions in another escape. That would almost certainly lead to failure, and he could not afford to fail.

* * *

At the same time that Sherlock was on tenterhooks about his letters, he found himself considering the problem of Halmsley even more. Nothing about this man's situation made sense. It was clear that he was a prisoner, just like Sherlock, but why had he chosen to play the part of a butler in his captivity? What did his sister have to do with anything? Rowlesden had mentioned her more than once, so doubtless, she was important. How important, though? Why on earth was Halmsley so afraid of Rowlesden? What did Rowlesden hold over his head that kept him in his house and under his control? Blackmail? If that was so, then what did Halmsley want to keep secret so badly that he was prepared to go to these lengths?

Halmsley was a problem without an answer. Sherlock approached the problem from countless angles, but he lacked enough data to draw a conclusion. It was absolutely maddening. He had a feeling that slip on the part of either man...a glance...a blink...a twitch...anything at all!...would give him the clue he needed, but he was no closer to figuring things out now than when he first arrived.

From Halmsley's bearing, most frequently used stance and musculature, he was active physically. The calluses on his hands denoted someone active in the martial arts, but at the same time, the way he held his hands and moved his fingers suggested that he was an artist. Occasionally there was the smell of oil paint on his clothes, and once there had been a smudge of charcoal on the cuff of his shirt. So, he drew and painted. When Sherlock had seen him write some things down, it was clear that he was used to wielding a pencil or brush on a regular basis, so it was fully possible that he was a professional artist. If he was a professional artist, then who was he? Was he known in artistic circles, or had he not been "discovered" yet?

Even knowing that Halmsley was an artist only confused the issue more. If he was an artist, why did he pursue the martial arts? Injuries to one's hands could happen, and artists relied on their hands. Why, then, did he risk his hands to learn...well, he'd never seen Halmsley doing any martial arts, so he didn't know which one he practiced. Still, why would Halmsley do martial arts?

The butler business was even more confusing. Why did Halmsley pretend to be a butler? What would be the point? The man was flawless in every action he performed in that capacity...either he'd been trained, or he'd studied on his own and perfected his skills. But why would he do any of that? Why? Was there even a reason? Perhaps the man was made and his form of mania was an obsession with being a butler! He didn't seem mad, though. But what else could it be?

As he always did when he considered the problem of Halmsley, Sherlock found himself up against a brick wall, with no way to go around or over it.

* * *

A week and a half after the shopping trip, Halmsley woke him early.

"Mr. Holmes?"

"What is it?" Sherlock said, jerking awake. "Halmsley? What time is it?"

"Just past six, sir."

Sherlock groaned and pulled the blankets over his head. "Why are you waking me up so early? I thought Rowlesden wanted me to rest! Having to wake up early is not resting!"

"He's in his study," Halmsley said, sounding very worried. "He says he wants to see you."

Sherlock sat up and looked at the butler. "Did he say why?"

Halmsley shook his head. "No. But he's angry."

Sherlock scrambled out of his bed and headed to the wardrobe. Given how long Halmsley had been here, he would know when Rowlesden was angry. "Is he angry with me?"

"I would think so," Halmsley said. "He told me to bring you downstairs straightaway."

"Blast," Sherlock said, grabbing some clothes and heading into the bathroom. He could tell that Halmsley was spooked. Not good. Not good at all. "I'll be five minutes."

Halmsley escorted him downstairs and into the study. Rowlesden, standing behind his desk, turned and leveled a glare at the both of them that would have killed lesser men.

"Halmsley, close and lock the door," Rowlesden said, beginning to pace. "Both of you have a seat."

Sherlock took his seat, reminding himself to remain calm. Rowlesden had no proof of anything and it was pointless to panic before he knew for sure what Rowlesden wanted.

"I let you both go on an outing into town in good faith, and it appears, that one or both of you have gone back on your words not to pass messages," Rowlesden growled. "Now, I'm going to ask this right here: Did you work together, or did one of you work on his own?"

Sherlock wondered how to answer that. It was possible that his messages had reached John unremarked by Rowlesden and his cronies, but a message passed by Halmsley to someone else might have been noticed. If Sherlock gave the wrong answer, then Halmsley could be in a great deal of trouble. Then again, if Halmsley gave the wrong answer, then Sherlock would be in a great deal of trouble! How to answer? He thought for a moment and found an answer. "Work together? On what?"

For a reply, Rowlesden tossed him a newspaper. Sherlock caught it, unfolded it, and found himself staring that the headline. _Calls for Help_. Underneath it was a photo of Baker Street and mailbags stacked up in front of the house. Sherlock scanned the article and suddenly felt his head begin to buzz. Not five letters, but _five hundred_ _letters_ had arrived at Baker Street in the morning post. According to mail workers, the letters hailed from every corner of Britain, Scotland, Ireland, France, Spain, Italy, Russia, Germany, Portugal, the Netherlands, Belgium, Sweden, Norway, the United States, New Zealand, Australia, Japan, China...

Sherlock stared at the article. He read it word for word, then went back to the beginning and started again. Who had done this? Why? Were his letters in there somewhere, lost among all the others? Who would have patience enough to read them all and find the meager five he had sent? Would that person even realize they were the genuine article? What was he going to do?

"This is the last chance for both of you to tell me the truth," Rowlesden said seriously. "Now, did either of you send any messages?"

Halmsley sat up straighter, his face pale under his dark hair. "I sent no letters, and Mr. Holmes did not give me any to send. I did not see him approach a postbox and I did not see him pass any letter to anyone."

Rowlesden looked at Halmsley and then shifted his attention to Sherlock. "Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock looked at Rowlesden and almost immediately his mind put together several things. "You already knew I sent some letters," he said quietly. "So you and your friends were prepared for that, weren't you? You sent the others? The other four hundred and ninety-five?"

Rowlesden's sudden chuckle told Sherlock that he was right. "I told them you would figure it out. Ah, well. It's good to know you haven't lost your deductive abilities."

Halmsley looked from Holmes to Rowlesden and back again. "So this was...just a deductive exercise for Mr. Holmes?"

Rowlesden grinned, all traces of his foul mood gone. "Of course. That, and we knew that he wasn't going to pass up an opportunity to communicate with the outside world if a chance presented itself. We were watching him in town, after all, and after O'Leary's someone noticed that the sleeves on the jacket he was wearing looked a little different...as if something had been removed from between the lining and the fabric of the jacket. It didn't take too much guesswork to realize that he'd been leaving messages about town."

Sherlock cringed inwardly at the word 'guesswork.' They hadn't even had to work hard to figure out what he'd been doing! Had he really been that oblivious and ...and...and _obvious_? Oh, that galled. Oh, his bruised and battered dignity.

"Since you followed the letter of my orders for you and not the spirit, then I don't quite know just what an appropriate penalty should be," Rowlesden said thoughtfully. "You didn't try to draw attention to yourself, you didn't try to run off, nor did you try to pass a message to someone. Just how you got those letters posted is beyond me, but you did obey my instructions...up to a point. I see I will have to be careful about future outings." He paused and thought some more, moving around to the front of his desk and leaning against it right in front of Sherlock. "I think confinement to the house for a week and then just the house and grounds for a month will do. How does that sound?"

"Bleak," Sherlock answered, his heart giving a dreary little thump. House arrest again. How very monotonous. Then the amount of time hit him. A month? He didn't like what that implied. "Very bleak."

A sudden smack across his face shocked Sherlock so much that he gasped.

"You have only yourself to blame, Mr. Holmes," Rowlesden said. "I think it would be best if you spent today in your room, don't you?"

Sherlock sat on his temper. Now was not the time to lose it and knock Rowlesden arse-over-teakettle. Oh, it was tempting, though. "Undoubtedly."

Rowlesden rolled his eyes and gave a sigh. It was a touch too theatrical for Sherlock's tastes. As a villain, this man badly needed coaching. "And here I thought we were getting through to you, Mr. Holmes. You were settling in nicely and you'd even agreed to a trip. You'd put on weight and were starting to relax and enjoy yourself. We were very pleased with you. It boggles the mind that you would throw away all that progress by being sneaky and sending messages that you knew we didn't want you to send. Bad form, young man, bad form." He shook his head. "It looks like you'll need to stay a while longer."

"I've already been here a great deal of time," Sherlock protested. He felt as if he were playing a game and no one would tell him the rules! "How much longer are you planning on keeping me here? What exactly do you hope to accomplish by having me here?"

Rowlesden simply smiled and walked past Holmes and opened the door. Welling was skulking in the doorway, and he grinned when he saw Holmes. It was probably likely that Holmes now had the bright, angry red mark of a hand on his face, and it was even more likely that Welling knew what had happened. Irritating, that. He wasn't sure if his dignity could take another onslaught. If Welling mentioned the mark on his face, then he would become murderous.

"Welling will take you up to your room. Halmsley, I would like you to stay here with me. We've yet to spend any time together this week."

Sherlock glanced at Halmsley and saw that all the color had fled from the house steward's face. Poor Halmsley. He found himself wishing that there was something he could do for him, but short of killing Rowlesden, there was really nothing he could do. Sherlock followed Welling down the hall and upstairs, and he was more than happy to go into his room and close the door in Welling's face. Thank goodness that man hadn't said anything about the mark on his face. Sherlock looked in the mirror on the back of the wardrobe door and winced. There it was, bright red with each finger clearly outlined. When he got out of this place, he should charge Rowlesden with assault. He was sure that he could persuade Halmsley to be a witness somehow.

It was boring being in his room, but at least it was a safe haven from Rowlesden and his goons. He read for a while, then he switched on the television. A John Wayne movie called 'The High and the Mighty' was playing, and he amused himself by making deductions about the passengers on the plane. He grew bored with the movie about halfway through and started channel-surfing, hoping that something interesting would show up. For a while he watched Doctor Who, pondering the mind of the person who had come up with the idea of a two-hearted alien, and then he switched over to a documentary about selective mutism. It was about children who were able to speak but chose not to in certain situations. After that was another documentary, this time about twins and multiple births and how they seemed to communicate without speaking. He snorted. Anyone with an elementary understanding of haptic communication and human psychology could figure that one out. He channel-surfed again and hit the news. It was a report about crimes and his interest was caught. He heard about robberies, a murder, a couple charged with child abuse, and a company charged with fraud. He was thinking about the murder when the report changed.

"It was a scene of controlled chaos outside of 221B Baker Street this morning when the post arrived," the reporter stated. "Five hundred letters were delivered to the flat of Sherlock Holmes, the renowned consulting detective. They come from all corners of the globe and police are at a loss to explain whether or not the letters are a hoax."

"I can guarantee that five of them aren't," Sherlock said, beginning to pace. Damn Rowlesden and his friends! Not only were they keeping him captive, they were _playing_ with him! It was infuriating!

"Mr. Holmes is famous for his work as a consulting detective to Scotland Yard and for solving dozens of high-profile cases. His kidnapping eight weeks ago made headlines around the world. These letters are the first word that has been had of him in two months. Handwriting experts have examined the letters and have confirmed at least one letter is written in the detective's handwriting."

That made Sherlock freeze. One of the letters? They'd found one of his letters already?

"That particular letter was postmarked in Belgium..."

"Aargh!" Sherlock groaned and glared at the television. "You need new handwriting experts! How could I have sent it from Belgium?! I'm in England!"

"Volunteers have been sorting through the letters, hoping to find some word or clue from the detective."

Sherlock began pacing again.

"In related news, there has been no sign of Dr. John Watson at 221B Baker Street. When asked, Mrs. Hudson, landlady at 221B Baker Street, offered no comment."

Good old Mrs. Hudson. The news changed to another story and Sherlock switched the television off. He rarely prayed since he preferred to rely on his wits until he came up against something truly insurmountable, but right now, he was praying. He was praying and hoping that someone would find one of his letters and use it to find him.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Sherlock kept to his room for the next two days and then to the house for the next week, just as Rowlesden had ordered. He spent a great deal of time in the house library, reading magazines and newspapers and books, and of course, he went for swims to keep himself in shape. When he was allowed to go out, he rambled about the grounds, walking and walking and walking. Sometimes he had a few twinges from his foot, but Dr. Black had told him that he would feel a few twinges now and then as his foot muscles got back into shape.

It was a relief to walk and use up some of his energy. He would leave the house soon after breakfast and walk until Halmsley called him in for lunch. At lunch he was forced to endure Rowlesden's company and after lunch he would find himself outside again, walking and sometimes practically marching until he was too tired to take another step. He went out in all sorts of weather, from rainy to misty to windy to sunshine, it didn't matter; he was outside as much as possible, wandering the grounds and moving through the gardens, the orchard, the fields, and around the small lake. There was not a path in the grounds that he hadn't walked, and often he struck out across the fields with no heed paid to the paths. Often he returned to the house with his shoes and trouser legs soaked from the damp, and more than once he returned covered in mud. Once he'd cleaned up and changed clothes it would be time for dinner, and after dinner he would retire to his room to read until bed.

There had been no word yet that his true letters had been found, and for all he knew, his letters had been intercepted and five hundred false letters had been sent to Baker Street. He didn't want to consider it, but it was possible that there was a chance that his one call for help had gone unheard. Whenever that thought came to his mind on his walks, Sherlock found himself walking faster, as if he might outrun that thought if he just moved fast enough.

He started dreaming at night. In those dreams, he would always see John, either in the street of the village or in the grounds or in the halls of the house, and even though John would look directly at him, John wouldn't see him. Either that, or he would be outside Baker Street, somehow pounding on the windows of their flat and shouting, and John wouldn't even look up. The worst dreams were when he dreamed that he was trapped in a room without any windows or doors, but there was a puzzle for him to solve. If he could solve the puzzle, then he would be able to get out. Unfortunately, the puzzle was missing pieces, and those pieces were just outside the room waiting for him.

After a solid week of dreams, Sherlock realized that he needed something to engage his mind. If he didn't, then the dreams would get worse. They would drive him mad. He began reading more books, but reading only helped a little. He began keeping a journal on the laptop he had, but it served only to depress him. In desperation, Sherlock at last turned to the textbooks that Rowlesden had left for him and began to study them, hoping that actively studying something would help. Studying things that he hadn't thought about since school did help, for a while, at least. He read all about the history of the world and England, about the different areas of the world and how each unique place influenced the people who lived there. He also read literature, reacquainting himself with works he hadn't read in years. He read about astronomy, biology, and anthropology and wrote out and answered the questions in the books. He studied grammar and worked out the exercises, and he even researched and wrote a paper using the books in the library. He read the humanities text and began drawing and painting, following the examples in the book and later elaborating on them. In a short while he had quite a tidy portfolio of drawings and watercolor paintings, and if he wished to attend the Royal Academy, he would have been ready. He also spent hours playing the violin, composing new pieces of playing old favorites again and again. He would stop only when his hands begged for mercy. Sometimes he would let his hands rest, soak them in ice water, and then go back to playing, unable to stand not having anything to do.

He was still very, very bored. Despite all the studying and writing and painting and composing he was doing, he was bored. Oh, for a wall and gun. Target practice would have given him something to do. When the boredom became too much to bear, he began walking again, actually missing meals when he could get away with it, which wasn't often. Breakfast was the easiest to miss since Sherlock could leave the house early in the morning and walk until lunch. Rowlesden never came to the table at the same time every day, so if Sherlock wasn't at breakfast Rowlesden would simply conclude that Sherlock had already eaten or would eat after Rowlesden had finished. Being hungry didn't bother him since would have a good tuck in at lunch that would last him until dinner, where he would have another good meal, which would last him until lunch the next day. At most he could skip breakfast two days in a row, and whenever he skipped breakfast he always had another hour in which to walk. After two weeks of this he noticed that his clothes were becoming looser and he prayed that no one else noticed. If anyone did, then he would most likely be sent back to the wretched infirmary, and he didn't want that. He really would go crazy.

One morning, Sherlock was headed downstairs early, intent on walking until lunch. He'd actually slept well the night before and he was full of energy. He was almost to the door when Halmsley stepped out from behind a screen, startling him.

"Gaah!" Sherlock gasped, fighting to keep his voice down. "Halmlsey! Don't _do_ that!"

"Sorry," Halmsley said, not sounding contrite at all.

"What are you doing, skulking about like that?" Sherlock demanded, willing his heart rate to go back to normal.

"I was waiting for you," Halmsley said. "You should really go to breakfast this morning."

"Don't I go to breakfast every morning?" Sherlock wanted to know. It would be like Halsmley to notice.

"Mr. Rowlesden asked me if you'd been going to all meals," Halmsley said. "I told him that as far as I was aware, you had been. I lied for you once, but don't expect me to do it again."

Damn and blast! Rowlesden had become suspicious. "Thank you, Halmsley."

Halmsley simply nodded and walked off, and Sherlock turned around and headed to the dining room. He sat down and helped himself to fried potatoes, sausage, fruit salad, and yogurt. He was in the middle of his meal when Rowlesden arrived.

"Ah, good morning, Mr. Holmes. So nice to see you for a change."

"Good morning, Rowlesden," Sherlock said, deciding to go on the offensive. If he distracted Rowlesden enough, then perhaps his captor would forget his suspicions about Sherlock missing meals. "I was wondering...I've been here, what? Two months? Three?"

"Closer to three than two," Rowlesden told him. "It will be three months at the end of next week."

Sherlock nodded. "I see. Well, I was wondering something."

Rowlesden leaned his head on his hand and gave his full attention to Sherlock. "And what might that be?"

"How long is my stay likely to last?"

Rowlesden smirked and gave a chuckle. "Oh, this again. So eager to be off, Mr. Holmes?"

"I miss my work," Sherlock told him. "I miss my freedom, and I miss my friends. That's all."

"You need to stay a little longer," Rowlesden told him after thinking for a moment.

Sherlock groaned and dropped his fork. Suddenly, all the frustration he'd been carrying for weeks erupted to the surface. "Why? For God's sake, tell me why!" Why on earth was he shaking? What was wrong with him?

Rowlesden did not look surprised by Sherlock's outburst. Instead, he looked annoyed. "If you do not calm yourself, Mr. Holmes, then I shan't tell you anything. Do you understand?"

"Oh, I'm to finally get answers?" Sherlock said at his snarkiest.

"I'm feeling less disposed to tell you anything every moment. Could you attempt being civil?"

Sherlock took a deep breath and fought to get himself under control. Another deep breath, and another, and he felt more like himself. "I apologize. If you would be so kind, could you tell me what your criteria are for keeping me here and how long my stay is likely to be?"

Rowlesden's smile showed real warmth this time. Strange, how different one person's smiles could be, and how changeable their emotions. "That's much better, Mr. Holmes, thank you. Our criteria...hmmmm. Let's see." He paused and appeared to think. "Do you know how you are when you're on a case? You think of nothing but the case, you don't take care of yourself, you don't eat, you don't sleep, and you don't take any time for you. You may call your body a mere transport, but the fact of the matter is that it is not. The mind needs the body, Mr. Holmes. It was rather distressing to see you abusing yours through case after case."

"I remember you and your compatriots had expressed this concern before," Sherlock said. "I still fail to see how it matters."

"That is the reason you are here. As I said, the mind needs the body. Without proper rest and proper food and proper care, the body performs at less than its best, and when that happens, the mind can suffer. A sluggish circulatory system can mean less blood to the brain. Not eating means less needed nutrients for the same. Not relieving stress and taking time to enjoy oneself can lead to breakdown. That is why we brought you here. We brought you here not only to nurse you back to physical health, but to take care of your mental health as well. You need to learn how to enjoy life again, Mr. Holmes. Now that your physical health is better and your mental health is on the mend, now comes our real lessons. We need to teach you how to take joy in life."

All of Rowlesden's remarks about indulging himself and enjoying activities was beginning to make sense. "You make it sound as if you wish me to be a hedonist or sybarite."

"Not in the slightest," Rowlesden assured him. "I promise you. We want you to regain your zest for life. You had it when you and John Watson met, but over the past year, with these constant cases and treating yourself as if you're nothing more than a thinking machine, you've lost it. We can help you with that."

"If I want to live my life like a thinking machine, then surely that is my prerogative?" Sherlock asked.

"Not when so many people depend on your skills, Mr. Holmes," Rowlesden said, smiling. "Since you have such a needed set of skills, then you owe it to the world to take care of yourself. I and my friends do not doubt that your skills will be needed."

Sherlock nodded, his mind working at a dead sprint. "So, the comfort I'm surrounded with, the fine food and clothes, the massages...they weren't to get me back on my feet physically, they were to...help my senses wake up?"

"Exactly," Rowlesden said. "Activities and other events are supposed to help you learn how to have fun. Once you're back on your feet again, there will be an event to which you can look forward."

"Sorry?" Sherlock said, hoping that he'd misheard. Back on his feet again?

"You've lost weight," Rowlesden said, his voice sounding like the knell of doom. "And you've been skipping meals. Not good, Mr. Holmes."

"Oh, ask not for whom the bell tolls," Sherlock grumped. "I know it tolls for me, thank you. Just a few meals, that's all, and I've been getting plenty of exercise. That's probably why I've lost weight. Plenty of exercise. That was what you wanted, wasn't it?"

"Not at the price of missed meals," Rowlesden pressed. "You may have undone all your hard work, you know. Surely you don't want to return to the infirmary?"

Sherlock shuddered. "Ah, no. Not at all. Once was enough, thank you."

"If you've finished your breakfast, then I think a visit to Dr. Black is in order. We need to make sure you've done yourself no lasting harm."

Sherlock had finished, so Rowlesden marched him down to Dr. Black's office. Halmsley was there, shirtless and seated on the exam table and Dr. Black was listening to his chest with a stethoscope. "Deep breath," Dr. Black instructed.

Halmsley complied and began coughing. He cleared his throat, tried again, and started coughing again. "Oh, I hate this time of year!" There was an audible wheeze in his words.

"What's the matter, Halmsley?" Rowlesden asked, his worry plain.

"Looks like his asthma's flaring up again," Dr. Black said. "He came to see me since his chest has been feeling odd. That cough sounds like the bronchi are closing up. How often are you using your inhaler, Halmsley?"

"At least every other day," Halmsley reported, looking rather pale. "Today I've already used it twice. My chest hurts."

"He needs a steroid to open those airways up," Dr. Black told Rowlesden, jotting something on a prescription pad. "Have one of your men go into town and have this prescription filled. In the meantime, I'll give Halmsley a nebulizer treatment to get rid of the tightness in his chest and make it easier for him to breathe."

In a short time Halmsley was breathing into a mouthpiece while the machine hummed at his side, and Rowlesden told Dr. Black about Sherlock's missed meals and increased exercise. Dr. Black groaned. "Really? You not only had to increase your exercise, but you decided to skip meals? Oh, Heaven help us!"

Sherlock opened his mouth, but Dr. Black cut him off.

"It is so important for your immediate future that you keep that thought to yourself, Mr. Holmes," Dr. Black said tightly. "Let's get your weight."

Sherlock slipped off his jacket and shoes when bidden and stepped onto the scale, his back once again to the readout. In all his time here, he'd never seen what he weighed. "It's not so bad, now, is it?"

Rowlesden took one look at the numbers on the scale and glared at Halmsley. "You lied to me this morning, Halmsley. I asked if he's been coming to breakfast, and you said yes!"

Halmsley coughed and removed the mouthpiece. "I didn't lie. You asked if he'd been coming to meals, and I thought he had been. How was I to know he hadn't been?"

Rowlesden crossed the room in a few strides and backhanded Halmsley across the face, knocking the mouthpiece to the floor. Dr. Black rushed Rowlesden and bustled him out of the infirmary, growling that no one, NO ONE, manhandled his patients, and what good did he think striking Halsmley would do? He was ill with an asthma attack, the absolute last thing he needed was to be bullied! The final thing the two of them heard was Dr. Black demanding that Rowlesden not return until he could keep his temper under control.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock asked, turning to Halmsley.

Halmsley nodded, retrieving the mouthpiece. "I'll be fine. Do you remember when I said that my life could get difficult when Rowlesden was unhappy? That was why."

Sherlock felt cold. "Does he make a habit of this?"

"I don't want to discuss it right now," Halmsley said. "Dr. Black is coming." He put the mouthpiece back in his mouth and breathed the mist in, the paleness of his face contrasting mightily with the mark of Rowlesden's hand.

"Are you all right, Halmsley?" Dr. Black asked, entering the infirmary.

Halmsley nodded, still breathing the mist in the mouthpiece.

"Let me take a look at your face; turn your head. There's a lad," Dr. Black said kindly. "Well, it won't bruise much. That's a comfort. I'll get a compress for it. Does it hurt?"

Halmsley shook his head.

"Good. I've told Rowlesden that you're to be on bed rest until the morning after tomorrow, so you'll have all day tomorrow to yourself. He won't bother you. As soon as the machine finishes, you can go up to your room. You'll feel a little giddy, so let me know if you want some help, all right?"

Halmsley nodded.

"Now, Mr. Holmes, for you..." Dr. Black said. "You've lost too much weight, and I'm seriously minded to put you back in the infirmary."

Sherlock cringed.

"However, what I'm going to do is tell Mrs. Burton to begin fixing your specialized diet again, and you will be eating every meal and every snack that's brought you. If you fail to do this, I will sentence you to bed rest until your weight is back up. Do you understand?"

"Completely," Sherlock said. "Ah...is it all right if I go up to the kitchen and ask Mrs. Burton for a snack?"

"More than all right," Dr. Black said with a tiny smile. "Halmsley, if you're ready, I'll help you up to your room."

"I'm fine," Halmsley said as the machine shut off. His eyes were wide and glazed.

"No, you're not," Dr. Black said, not unkindly. "Come on, now. Let's go."

Sherlock went right up to the kitchen after that and asked Mrs. Burton if he could have a snack.

"I'll be you didn't eat much at breakfast," she said wisely. "You wouldn't be asking for a bit to eat if you had."

"Ah, I was sharing a table with Rowlesden," Sherlock said, watching Mrs. Burton mix something in a bowl. "I couldn't work up much of an appetite."

"I hope he was minding his manners," Mrs. Burton said. "That boy was impossible at the table when he was younger, or so his first cook told me."

Sherlock chuckled. It was easy to imagine the oh-so-correct Rowlesden slouching at the table and smacking his lips. "He was minding his manners at the table, but he was pretty rude to Halmsley a little bit ago."

Mrs. Burton looked indignant. "Well, I'll just see how much salt I put in his soup tonight for dinner. Just see if I don't."

Sherlock laughed and perched on a stool, looking at the open cookery book in front of him. "What are you making?"

"Lunch," she said, stirring batter in the bowl. "We're having beef bourguignon, and I thought a good white cake for afters would be just the thing."

Sherlock examined the many small bowls on the table with interest. "All of these are necessary?"

"If you want the dishes to taste right, yes," Mrs. Burton assured him. "If you want to watch and hear how it's made, then I'll tell you. If you want to help, then I have plenty of aprons."

Helping prepare a meal had not occurred to him at all. It would be something completely new to do. "I could help?"

"Certainly!" Mrs. Burton said with a wide smile and a floury clap on his back. "You wash your hands, and I'll get you an apron."

When had been the last time he'd actually cooked? At home, his mother had cooked the occasional meal or the housekeeper/cook had. At school, the cooks in the dining room had cooked, and at college, well, the cooks there had cooked. He could heat things up that came in cans or boxes, and he could fry bacon or sausage and the rare lamb chop, cut bread and butter, and he knew how to make tea and coffee. That was it, though. Nowadays he either got a meal out, tried some of John's experiments in the kitchen, or ate what Mrs. Hudson brought. He could remember an entire month when he lived on takeaway. Cooking something would be...new.

It wasn't long before he was standing at the table, clad in an apron and peeling and chopping vegetables. He learned how to curl his fingers away from the blade of the knife so he wouldn't cut himself, how to peel and chop onions in water so they wouldn't make his eyes water, how to make a bouquet garni, and how to grease and flour a cake pan so the cake wouldn't stick.

"What about those non-stick sprays they sell?"

"Anyone serious about cakes wouldn't use them," Mrs. Burton said, the tone of a purist ringing through every word. "Sometimes the old methods are what work best."

Once the cake was in the oven to bake, Mrs. Burton showed him how to brown onions and carrots in butter in a Dutch oven on the stove. Once they were to her liking, she showed him just what seasonings to use and added the beef, allowing the outside surface of the meat to sear a bit and the juices to caramelize. After that, she added red wine, the bouquet garni, a sprig of thyme, and slapped the cover on the pan to allow the flavors to settle. By that time the cake was ready to come out and cooled on baking racks on the table. Mrs. Burton slid the Dutch oven into the oven and, once the cakes were cool, showed Sherlock how to trim them and let him put on the first coat of icing.

"It's called a crumb coat since crumbs always form when you put it on. We'll let the cake rest a while, add the filling, put it together, and then put on the final coat of icing and the garnish. All right?"

By eleven-thirty, the cake was finished and in the icebox to stay cool. The stew had simmered into succulence and Sherlock was gazing at the rolls he had helped shape and bake and brush with egg white so they would turn a nice golden brown. It was incredible that such simple things could make such an incredible meal.

"I think you've found a new calling," Mrs. Burton joked, seeing Sherlock slumped on a stool. "Tired?"

"I'd never realized that cooking took so much effort," Sherlock admitted. He had a new-found respect for anyone who cooked on a regular basis.

"It takes practice, young man," Mrs. Burton reminded him. "Now, lunch is at twelve, so you'd best go upstairs to rest a bit and clean up before you head to the dining room, all right?"

"All right," Sherlock said, pulling himself off of the stool. "And...thank you for the cooking lessons. This morning is the most fun I've had since my trip into town."

"My pleasure, dear. Off you go, now."

He was tired, he had a crick in his back, he was covered in flour and a drying layer of sweat, but he was smiling and feeling an odd sense of happiness welling up somewhere in his chest. He'd enjoyed every moment of the time spent with Mrs. Burton and he'd enjoyed what he'd learned. He wondered how she would take his presence in the kitchen during the afternoon. If he offered to help her with supper...

He went down to lunch feeling much better than he had for a while, and he actually entered the dining room with a spring in his step. He spotted Rowlesden at his place and gave him a polite greeting, but then he realized that there was someone else at the table.

"Mr. Holmes, I'm sure you'll remember Ms. Lewis," Rowlesden said, motioning toward the lady.

"I do, yes," Sherlock said, taking his seat. "It is good to see you again, Ms. Lewis." Being polite wouldn't kill him.

"And you, Mr. Holmes," Ms. Lewis said as Mrs. Burton carried lunch in and began to serve it. "You look as if you've spent a pleasant morning."

"I have, yes," Sherlock said, giving a smile as he laid his napkin on his lap. "I spent the morning learning how to do something new, and it was quite enjoyable."

Rowlesden looked at him carefully, as if he was nervous about what Sherlock might have been up to. "Might one ask what?"

"Nothing nefarious," Sherlock said as he saw Mrs. Burton smile. "I promise."

"Okay, now I'm worried," Rowlesden said, gripping the edge of the table.

His tone of voice and the look on his face were too much for Sherlock, and the next thing he knew, he was laughing out loud. He gave his apologies for making such a ruckus, looked at Rowlesden again, and started roaring again. His laugh was infectious, and the next thing he knew, Ms. Lewis and Rowlesden were laughing along with him.

"I don't know why it's so funny," Sherlock said once he got his breath back. "It feels good to laugh, though."

"I'm sure you needed to," Ms. Lewis said, taking a spoonful of her stew. She smiled as soon as the taste hit her. "Mmm. Oh, Mrs. Burton has outdone herself this time. This is wonderful."

_Do not laugh_, Sherlock told himself sternly. _Do NOT laugh_. To forestall that very event, Sherlock took a spoonful of the dish he'd helped create. It was rather good. "So, Ms. Lewis, what brings you our way?"

"I had to get to somewhere out in the country for a while and take a break from work," Ms. Lewis said, sighing. "Mr. Rowlesden was kind enough to offer me houseroom for a while."

Sherlock smiled and couldn't resist making a pun. "He tends to do that. One might say that I couldn't refuse my invitation."

Ms. Lewis got it immediately, but Sherlock saw Rowlesden grit his teeth. Score one for the imprisoned detective. He kept up a polite conversation with Rowlesden and Ms. Lewis until Mrs. Burton brought out the cake. It was resplendent with white frosting and chocolate curls for a garnish and Sherlock was more than happy to have two slices, rather than just one. "It is very good cake," he said in response to Mr. Rowlesden's surprised look.

"Oh, no, it's not that," Rowlesden said. "I'm just very glad to see that you have an appetite after all."

After lunch Sherlock went to his room for all of twenty minutes before he changed into jeans and a T-shirt and made his way back down to the kitchen. "Mrs. Burton? Lunch was fabulous! Would you mind if I joined you in preparing dinner?"

She turned around as he scooted into the kitchen, but something in her expression as she turned to face him made him pause. She was pale and a red spot stood out on each cheek. As he watched, a single tear made its way down her face.

Sherlock was immediately worried. "Mrs. Burton? Is something wrong?"

He saw the newspaper lying on the table behind her, and the headline that she couldn't hide. _Disappearance of Dr. John Watson_.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

He suddenly felt as if he were encased in ice. He was cold, so cold that he couldn't even move enough to shiver. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't speak, and he couldn't think. He just stood there, staring at the headline and feeling as if he would never be able to see anything else again. That headline with be the final thing he saw in his lifetime. The awful thought that something had happened to his closest friend was more than he could bear. The situation was rapidly approaching the point where he wouldn't be able to bear it, and he would go mad.

Somehow, through all the ice and frozen feeling, he found his throat and he was able to swallow. His lips moved, and he took a breath. He took another breath an eternity later, and somehow, his voice gave a croak. An age or so later, his voice found the capability to speak once more. "What happened to John?"

Mrs. Burton looked at the paper. "Do you want to read it, or would you like me to?"

Another swallow, another breath. A word that was more croak than word. "You."

Mrs. Burton read the newspaper article aloud to him, reading slowly and quietly, but he understood everything. The words washed around him, surrounding him like the beginning of a flood that was about to sweep him away. Their landlady Mrs. Hudson had called the police after coming home the previous evening and finding their front door open. There had been signs of a struggle in the upstairs flat inhabited by Sherlock Holmes and his flatmate, Dr. John Watson. There was a brief mention that Sherlock Holmes had been kidnapped close to three months ago, and the writer of the article offered the opinion that the kidnappers had returned for Dr. Watson.

A roaring started in Sherlock's ears. Something bad had happened to John, and he hadn't been there. He hadn't been there! He hadn't _been_ there!

"Easy, now," said Mrs. Burton, steering him with amazing ease to a stool and seating him. How could she move through ice so easily? "Don't panic, dear. Think. What do you think might have happened? Where might he be?"

"Right now I can only think of two possibilities," Sherlock said, fighting against the frost around his mind that was making it so difficult to think. "One is, that my brother might have taken him into custody to make sure that he stayed safe, but if that were the case, then nothing would have been reported by the newspapers. Mycroft wouldn't have wanted the press involved. The other possibility is that he has really been kidnapped, and I wasn't there." His throat pained him and suddenly it was impossible to swallow. "I wasn't there!"

Mrs. Burton's arms were around him, holding him close. She whispered all sorts of words to comfort him, but he couldn't hear any of them. The roaring in his ears was getting worse and it was starting to block out everything else.

"I wasn't there," Sherlock repeated. "I was here. He was there and I was here. In the past, John has gotten into trouble because of me, but I was always there to get him out of it and to make sure that whoever caused trouble for him was caught! Now, I'm not there, and he's in trouble, and I'm not there to get him out of it! I'm not there!"

"Breathe," Mrs. Burton said, momentarily drowning out the roaring. "Deep breaths, dear. Dr. Watson is an intelligent man, and I'm sure he'll know how to get himself out of trouble. Whoever has him won't have him long."

"Whoever has him..." Sherlock echoed. "Whoever has him..." It felt as if explosions were going off in his head. Thought after thought after thought rushed through his mind, almost drowning his consciousness. A million thoughts hit him at once and made him feel as if his head were cracking open. Flashes of dozens of images, echoes of countless words all came together in a horrible moment of realization. There was one possibility that he hadn't considered yet, but it was one that the writer of the news article had suggested.

Rowlesden. Rowlesden and his wretched friends. The so-called guardian angels of the unfortunate and unlucky souls in their crosshairs and the hosts of unwilling guests.

He surged up off the stool and ran out of the kitchen, heading for the stairs. He raced up them, down the hall, around a corner, and pushed through the doors to Rowlesden's study without bothering to knock.

"You heartless bastard!" he screamed, letting his full fury come to the surface. "Where is he?!"

Rowlesden had been seated behind his desk reading a paper, but at Sherlock's entrance he rose to his feet. "Where is whom?"

"You know damn well who!" Sherlock shouted. The newspaper that Rowlesden was holding had the same story that Mrs. Burton had just read to him. "Where is John?!"

"I don't know," Rowlesden said calmly.

"The devil you don't!"

"Please stop shouting," Rowlesden said, laying his paper on the desk. "What makes you think I know where he is?"

"It's obvious!" Sherlock yelled, ignoring Rowlesden's request about the shouting. "You kidnapped me! Now you've kidnapped him!"

"Just because I kidnapped you does not mean that I've kidnapped him. What possible reason would I have to do that?" Rowlesden wanted to know.

"I've no idea, but I will figure it out!" Sherlock shouted. It was as if he couldn't stop. He was physically incapable of lowering his voice for the moment. The ice was thawing and cracking and he had a feeling that any moment it would start to burn. The fact that such a scenario violated all laws of thermodynamics didn't bother him; he felt as if the ice surrounding him was going to catch fire.

"I have not ordered the kidnapping of John Watson," Rowlesden said evenly. "I promise you, I have no idea where he is."

"I don't believe you," Sherlock snarled, for once not shouting. "I think you have him hidden away, and eventually, you're going to want me to do something. I will refuse, whatever it is, and then you'll bring John out and dangle his safety or his life over my head to get me to cooperate."

"You really think I'd do something like that?"

"You and I both know that's how you operate!" Sherlock hollered, bringing his fist down onto Rowlesden's desk, upsetting a cup of pens and pencils. "You know where John is and you've kidnapped him! I know it!"

Rowlesden leveled a glare at him. "You are trying my patience, Mr. Holmes."

"Well, it's good to know that you now know how it feels!" Sherlock shouted, throwing the toppled cup against the wall. Since it was made of plastic it didn't shatter, but oh, it would have felt good to see it break to pieces. "My patience has been tried in countless ways every day that I've been here! Stop playing a game with me and tell me where John is!"

"I don't know," Rowlesden repeated. "I'm warning you, Mr. Holmes, that I'm tired of the shouting and the groundless accusations. Please calm yourself and go to your room."

Sherlock grit his teeth. "I'm not a child that you can tell to go to his room, Rowlesden. You may have kidnapped me and you may be holding me prisoner now, but don't think for one moment that you can tell me what to do. I am one hell of a consulting detective, I'm bloody pissed off, and I swear that I will become your living nightmare if you don't tell me what you've done with John!" He started off speaking quietly, but when he finished, he was shouting again. His voice filled the room and it was clear that he could be heard all over the house. It seemed as if the very walls were listening.

A knock at the door distracted them both. "Come," Rowlesden called.

Welling opened the door. "I could hear every word upstairs. Is everything all right in here?"

"No, it's not!" Sherlock said quickly before Rowlesden answered. "Dr. John Watson. What have you done with him? Where have you and your little friends stashed him?"

"Stashed who? Dr. Watson?" Welling looked at Rowlesden. "You didn't order him brought in."

"So I told Mr. Holmes, but he didn't believe me," Rowlesden said. "Mr. Holmes is overwrought with worry about his friend, so I think it would be a good idea if he went upstairs to his room until he can get himself under control. Would you see to it, Welling?"

"Don't you touch me," Sherlock warned when Welling took a step forward. "Don't you even attempt it."

"If you'll come upstairs on your own steam, Mr. Holmes, then I won't have to," Welling said. "Come on, now."

"No," Sherlock said.

"What?" Welling said, surprised.

"No. Just that. No. I'm not going anywhere," Sherlock said, turning to Rowlesden. "If you haven't kidnapped him, then where is he?"

"How would we know that?" Rowlesden demanded. "We haven't kidnapped him, we don't know who did, so how would we know where he is?"

"With your wretched secret society, surely nothing is secret for you?" Sherlock said nastily. "I'm sure your many ears and eyes around the world have heard or seen something."

"Nothing that's been reported or noted," Rowlesden sighed. "My reading the newspaper report today was the first word I had of Dr. Watson's disappearance. We did not order it and we never planned to have him taken into custody by anyone in our organization. You were the target, not him. There would have been no point in our procuring him when it was you we wanted. He simply wasn't important."

Sherlock paused, thinking. It was likely that Rowlesden was speaking the truth. He might truly have no idea who kidnapped John or why or where he was now. If that were the case, then who would do such a thing, why had they done it, and where was John now?

"I can see you're beginning to understand that we had nothing to do with this," Rowlesden said, sounding more than a little relieved. "Now that you're calmer, why don't you go do something you enjoy?"

Sherlock felt his neck creak as his head turned. Impossible. It was impossible that any intelligent being could have just said that. Was this man completely clueless, or just an idiot? "Why? I don't feel like doing anything right now. I want to find John."

"How could you find him? You're not in London, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock gave Rowlesden a long look, as if he couldn't believe anyone could be so hopelessly stupid. "If I need to find John, then I need to go to London, Rowlesden."

"Impossible," Rowlesden scoffed. "We could not possibly hope to keep you under escort in London, Mr. Holmes. Don't be daft."

"I didn't intend to be under escort in London, Rowleseden."

It didn't take Rowlesden long. Perhaps there was hope for him after all. "Don't be ridiculous, Mr. Holmes. You're nowhere near the end of your stay."

"It's been almost three months," Sherlock told Rowlesden. "I think that it's been quite a long visit, and certainly long enough. Time for me to head home."

Rowlesden's entire demeanor went stony. "No, Mr. Holmes. You've not been here long enough. Now, Welling is going to escort you up to your room. Distract yourself however you wish. If you wish anything to help the time pass, then you need only request it, but you will be staying here."

"And if I say I am not?" Sherlock queried, his demeanor as stony as Rowlesden's. He was fast approaching the point of murdering the older man just to get away from him. Either that, or to get him to shut up.

"If you attempt to leave, then we will have no choice but to confine you, and I know you won't want that. If you were to become violent toward me or any of my staff, then you will be drugged to keep you calm and kept in the infirmary until you have learned some manners. I hope I have made myself clear."

Sherlock felt the ice rush in on him again. Drugged. No, that would not be good for a number of reasons. Despite the ice, he still had enough fire in him to storm toward Rowlesden, stopping only inches from him. He stared his captor in the face and felt so much hatred that it was difficult to keep it contained. "Damn you!"

"You're not the first to say that, Mr. Holmes," Rowlesden told him. "Do you have anything else to say?"

"Not at the moment," Sherlock snarled. "Not really, aside from this: the longer you keep me here, the longer John's rescue will be delayed. If any harm comes to him because of my absence, then I will hold you personally responsible for it, Rowlesden, and you will pay the debt in full."

"Understood, Mr. Holmes. Off you go, now."

Welling escorted him down the hall, and Meyers and one man Sherlock recognized from his kidnapping was waiting for them at the foot of the stairs. They flanked Sherlock all the way upstairs and to his door. Sherlock opened his door and headed inside, but Welling's hand on his arm stopped him. Sherlock looked at Rowlesden's goon. "What is it?"

"I just wanted to let you know we'll be posting a guard," Welling said. "Also, you were pretty rude to Rowlesden."

"I doubt he's earned any civility from me," Holmes said, feeling himself slip towards a dangerous edge again.

"For such a smart guy, you have trouble grasping stuff when you're angry," Meyers said. "He wanted you to come up to your room so he could make some calls and find out if anyone knew anything about Dr. Watson. We have a few members of Rowlesden's society who have private police forces. Those forces could be sent out to find Dr. Watson. Ten to one, he's making those calls now."

Sherlock thought about it and found a smile starting. "How many people in those police forces?"

"The smallest force has a hundred men," Welling said, returning Sherlock's smile.

"Good," Sherlock said. "If Rowlesden asks for those private police forces to be deployed, then he will in some small measure make up this entire forced visit to me. Not entirely, you understand, but somewhat."

Welling nodded. "Don't you think you owe Mr. Rowlesden an apology?"

Oh, that was priceless. He could barely keep a straight face, but he managed it long enough to ask, "For what?"

Meyers gave a short bark of laughter. "Told you it was too much to hope for, Welling."

"Meyers is right," Sherlock said, going into his room. "I meant everything I said downstairs and if Rowlesden thinks I'm going to be obedient just because he's going to make a few phone calls then he's greatly mistaken. However, thank you very much for the information." He shut the door, paced for about thirty seconds, and then switched on the television. He had to know what was going on.

The fates were with him. There was a news report on, showing their flat.

"I am here, outside 221B Baker Street, the scene of the disappearance of John Watson. John Watson is best known as the blogger who has enthralled the world with his posts about his flatmate, the renowned consulting detective, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," a blonde reporter in black was stating, staring into the camera. The whole street was packed with reporters and photographers, interviewing neighbors and talking with police. "No one has been allowed inside the flat, but photographs of the scene inside have been released to the media. It is clear that a struggle took place and that Dr. Watson put up quite a fight against his abductors."

Sherlock winced as he saw the mess inside the flat. Papers and books were strewn everywhere, furniture had been toppled, the shattered remains of three mugs littered the living room floor, and the kitchen was an absolute wreck. It must have been quite a fight and Sherlock found himself praying that John was all right.

"So far, no one has come forward about the abduction. Neighbors report hearing no noise, no shouts, or calls for help. The entire case of who has taken John Watson, why, and where the doctor is now, is a mystery."

"Of course it's a mystery, we don't know who's done it!" Sherlock shouted at the television.

A knock at the door. "Are you all right in there, Mr. Holmes?" Welling called through the door.

"I'm fine," Sherlock called back. "Would you back away from the door, please? You're annoying me!"

A chuckle was the only answer, but he heard a quiet "He's fine, and he's back to his old self."

The reporter strode away from the flat so that it was hidden from the camera and she stopped. "Many people have offered the theory that the people who kidnapped Sherlock Holmes almost three months ago my have arranged for the abduction of Dr. Watson as well," she said. "So far, police have found no evidence to tie the two kidnappings together. Online support for the detective and the blogger has increased by a staggering four hundred percent since news of Dr. Watson's disappearance was first reported. We can only hope that Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson are both found soon, safe and sound and headed home."

The news changed stories then and Sherlock switched off the television. How he wished that he could have gotten a closer look at the crime scene! Surely there had to have been something there that would tell him _something_ or give him _some_ clue...

The picture of the flat that he'd seen on the news returned to his mind and he found himself going over every detail. His case files were strewn around the room, with loose papers covering the floor and every available surface. The skull had toppled from the mantelpiece and rolled under his chair. Books had been knocked from their shelves and lay scattered over the floor and nearby furniture. His chemical equipment in the kitchen had not been broken, but it had been swept from the table to land in a heap on the floor. Other furniture in the sitting room had been toppled while other pieces had been luckier and had been left in peace. The shards of the tea mugs had been left in front of the chairs by the fireplace...

Sherlock shot to his feet. Tea mugs...three of them. THREE. What had John done, sit around and have tea with his kidnappers before they kidnapped him? If he'd made tea for them, then they'd probably been in the flat for a while. Why would he make tea for someone? Perhaps they had been overwrought clients? Had they been old acquaintances? Perhaps they'd been people he'd known briefly in the army and met again by chance and invited them for tea? Why would they kidnap him, though? It didn't make sense!

There was only one person that Sherlock was sure could have better information about this and certainly infinitely more information than the media had! He strode straight to his door and opened it, walked on through, and encountered Welling's chest. "Excuse me. I have to go downstairs."

"What for?" Welling asked, not moving.

"I need to make a phone call."

Welling's eyebrows rose in surprise. "A phone call? Rowlesden didn't say anything about you making a phone call."

"Rowlesden has nothing to do with it," Sherlock told him. "I have to make a phone call. It is vital that I make this phone call."

"Why?"

"I have to talk to my brother," Sherlock said. "He has information that I need, and I have to talk to him now. If you would be so kind as to remove yourself from my path, then I shall greatly appreciate it."

"Nothing doing," Welling said, taking hold of Sherlock's shoulders and shoving him back into his room. "I'll talk to Rowlesden, but we're not going downstairs right now."

"Let go!" Sherlock shouted. He swung on Welling, but the larger man grabbed hold of his hand and twisted his arm up behind his back, practically frog-marching him back into his room. He yelped in pain and fought to get free, the whole while cursing under his breath. "I need to talk to my brother! He might know something about John's disappearance! I will become a veritable plague for you until I make that phone call!"

"Whatever you say," Welling said, marching Sherlock to the bed and depositing him in the center of it. The comforter and pillows poufed up around him, momentarily covering him in bedding. "Just stay in your room, and I won't have to knock you out."

Sherlock lay there, wondering just what Welling was up to. "Knock me out?" Sherlock echoed. "Why on earth would you do that?"

"You're a lot less trouble when you're asleep or unconscious," Welling said with a smile. "You were an absolute pleasure to look after when we kidnapped you because you were drugged for the entire trip."

Sherlock felt a snarky smile starting. "Oh, really? Well, I'm sure you saw the news after my kidnapping. John did say that the only way you would get any peace was if I was asleep."

"Don't tempt me," Welling said. "Really. Don't."

Sherlock thought for a moment and observed Welling, who was still standing by his bed. "Are you waiting for me to fall asleep?"

"It's more like I'm just making sure you're not about to do something," Welling answered. "What will it take for you to stay in your room and out of my and Rowlesden's hair for a while?"

"You could let me go," Sherlock suggested. "That way, I wouldn't be here to get in your hair."

"Try again."

Sherlock thought about it. "A creme brulee from Mrs. Burton, some book catalogues, and a chance to talk to Rowlesden later today."

"I can do two of them," Welling said. "Guess which one I won't do."

"Why not?" Sherlock complained. "I'll make an appointment if you want, but I want to talk to him!"

"Rowlesden's busy. End of story. Now, I'm warning you: if you try to leave your room again, I'll tie you up. Rowlesden meant it about you staying here. Got it?"

Sherlock wondered just how far he could push Welling. Probably not too much further if one were to judge from the throbbing vein in his temple. Hmm. He sighed and nestled into the pillows. "Fine. I shall vegetate in my room for a while, but I still wish to talk to Rowlesden."

Welling nodded. "All right, then. Now, I'm going to order you that creme brulee and have some book catalogues brought for you. Try to stay out of trouble."

"I'll do my best," Sherlock said at his snarkiest.

Welling left, and Sherlock stayed put on his bed. He was busy thinking with his hands steepled in front of him when Welling returned, carrying a tray with a creme brulee and several catalogues on it. He practically pounced on the tray, thanked Welling, and got down to the serious task of eating Mrs. Burton's excellent creme brulee and shopping for new books. By the time the creme brulee was a fond memory, he'd picked out an even dozen of new books, all of them rare and expensive. Rowlesden deserved a good case of sticker shock.

He must have fallen asleep after that because he woke up when someone shook his shoulder. He swatted at them, wanting to sleep, but a hand closed around his arm and pulled him up. "What?" he grouched. He finally got his eyes open and found himself staring once again at Welling.

"Good morning, sleeping beauty," Welling joked. "Have a nice nap?"

"Was there something in the creme brulee?"

"No, that nap was all you," Welling assured him. "Mr. Rowlesden asked me to tell you that you are cordially invited to a formal dinner tonight at seven-thirty."

"Oh, now he wants to talk to me?" Sherlock said, getting up. "What changed his mind?"

"No idea," Welling said. "It's formal, so make sure you wear something appropriate."

"He doesn't have to throw a formal dinner whenever we talk," Sherlock said, heading towards the wardrobe. "Why does he do that?"

Welling ignored the question and checked his watch. "You've got a half-hour, you know. Better hurry."

Sherlock sighed, washed his face, combed his hair, and changed. Welling was waiting out in the hallway for him and escorted him downstairs, but when he turned toward the dining room, Welling stopped him.

"Dinner's not in the dining room, I take it?" Sherlock said, thinking about it for a second.

"Dinner's being served on the terrace," Welling told him. "Let's go."

Sherlock followed Welling out to the terrace and came to a dead halt once he saw what was out there. There were almost a hundred candles arranged around the edge of the terrace, enclosing it all in a giant rectangle of light. There were more candles on the terrace benches and a candelabrum on the table. There were glass vases and bowls of flowers everywhere and strings of white lights hung in graceful arcs above the terrace. He turned on his heel, taking it all in. "What's this?"

Welling looked left and right. "Looks like decorations."

Sherlock looked around again. A candle-lit dinner with flowers and lights? Rowlesden wanted to have dinner with him...like this? He wasn't sure what to think. "Decorations."

Welling nodded and went back to the door. "Well, I'm going in. Have a nice time."

Sherlock wasn't sure what to do. Rowlesden wanted to have dinner with him, and the terrace was decorated like...well, like someone had planned a romantic evening. A cold ball of panic settled in his stomach. If Rowlesden had done this with the intention to...he didn't even want to think about it. He couldn't stand to think about what it meant. Rowlesden wanted to...what?

For a few minutes, Sherlock felt as if the world were spinning around him, faster and faster until it threatened to take him down completely. His heart rate and breathing rate increased, his head pounded, and his mouth went dry. Intellectually, he knew what he was experiencing, but a panic attack still made one feel helpless, even when you knew what it was. He made his way to a bench and forced air into his lungs. It would not do him or John any good if he completely fell apart. He had to keep himself under control. He had to get through the next few hours and somehow figure out how to leave this place. John was in trouble and he had to find a way out of here and a way to help him. Talking to Rowlesden might help that along.

A door opened, startling the life out of him. Fortunately, it wasn't Rowlesden, but Ms. Lewis. She was dressed in a blue evening gown that brought out her eyes and set off her hair.

"Good evening, Mr. Holmes," Ms. Lewis said.

"Good evening," he managed, finding his voice. If Ms. Lewis was going to be at this dinner, then he wouldn't be alone with Rowlesden, thank goodness! However, if Rowlesden had planned a romantic dinner and and had invited Ms. Lewis, then...oh, lord. Was Rowlesden planning to...to..._romance_ the two of them?

"I'm glad you came," Ms. Lewis said, walking up to him before looking up at the sky. "Isn't it a gorgeous night?"

Sherlock glanced up at the stars. A crescent moon was also there, adding more light to the sky. It was beautiful. "Yes, it's quite nice."

Ms. Lewis walked over to the table and stood by one chair. She turned and looked at Sherlock. "Aren't you going to pull out my chair for me?"

Sherlock walked over, pulled out the chair, and seated her. He stood there for a minute, thinking.

Ms. Lewis looked up at him. "Aren't you going to sit down?"

Robotically, Sherlock went to the other chair and sat down. Then it hit him. There were only two chairs. Sherlock looked at the chair she occupied, the chair he occupied, and the decorations...the candles...the lights... "Ms. Lewis, please tell me if I am wrong, but this whole set-up...Is this..." He decided to just come out and say it. "I know that because of John's blog most people think that I know next to nothing about dating and so forth, but I do have some knowledge of it. Tell me, is this a date, or one very big practical joke being played on us by Rowlesden?"

Ms. Lewis laughed, throwing her head back. "A practical joke! Oh, my!"

Sherlock reminded himself to remain patient until she calmed down.

"No, it's not a practical joke," Ms. Lewis said, wiping her eyes with a handkerchief she took from her handbag. "I did express to Rowlesden an interest in getting to know you better, and..." she paused and looked around. "This is what he came up with. I've always known that Rowlesden can be a bit of a romantic, but I didn't think he'd do something quite like this."

Sherlock blinked several times. "You wanted to get to know me better?"

She nodded. "Yes."

"Why?"

She smiled. "Why not?"

Sherlock didn't know what to do. What on earth could he do? He was getting ready to panic once more when the door opened. Halmsley stood there, dressed in his uniform. He greeted them both and began to impeccably serve dinner. Ms. Lewis chattered through the entire meal and Sherlock only marginally listened to what she was saying. Sherlock didn't notice the food at all when he was served, and when Halmsley poured them both wine, he nudged the glass a little closer to the detective, whispering, "I thought you could use an ally out here. These people are pretty awful with their traps, and Ms. Lewis is no exception."

Sherlock shot Halmsley a look full of gratitude and proceeded to enjoy dinner as much as he could, given the circumstances. He ate just a little bit of the dinner-it was some sort of chicken dish-and then Halmsley brought out dessert, a peach and white chocolate mille-feuille that practically melted on the tongue. He even held out his glass for some champagne when it was offered.

"To a lovely evening," Ms. Lewis said, holding out her glass once it was filled.

"Quite," Sherlock said, touching the rim of his glass to hers with a tiny clink. He took a sip of champagne and smiled at the way it sparkled on his tongue. If he had to admit one thing, it was that Rowlesden kept a wonderful cellar, drat the man.

"Do you hear music?" Ms. Lewis said, setting down her glass.

Sherlock listened. "Yes. It sounds like someone is playing Strauss." The music was impossible to miss since it was coming over the speakers that he'd seen posted at all four corners of the terrace.

"Do you know the name of the song?"

"Tales from the Vienna Woods," Sherlock said, putting down his champagne flute. He'd played it on the violin several times before. It was really music made to dance to.

The thought was parent to the deed, and he pushed back his chair, set his napkin aside, rose to his feet, and bowed to Ms. Lewis, holding out his right hand. "Would the lady care to dance?"

Ms. Lewis gave him a dazzling smile that reminded him of a shark and placed her hand in his. He assisted her to her feet and whirled her into the empty space in the middle of the terrace. Her steps were clumsy, but he knew how to dance with even the most hopeless of partners. It wasn't long before the two of them were waltzing to the music. He actually found himself enjoying the dancing after a few minutes. If he had to tell the truth, then he'd have to say that he'd always loved dancing and did it every chance he got.

He and Ms. Lewis danced every dance, only taking time out for some water now and then.

"So, you wanted the chance to get to know me a little better," Sherlock said when they were in the middle of their eighth dance.

"Oh, yes," Ms. Lewis told him.

"Might one ask why?"

"One might."

He was getting nowhere. It seemed as if she were determined to play coy. All right, then. He would have to think of something else. He nodded. "Hmm. Well, will you answer a question for me?"

"Depends on the question."

"All right, then," he said. "What makes you think I'll reveal anything about myself?"

"One may deduce things, Mr. Holmes."

Her answer amused him in spite of himself. "You are right. One may."

Several hours later, Sherlock followed Welling and Meyers upstairs to his room. He was very confused. Very, very confused. Why on earth would Ms. Lewis arrange a a romantic evening with him? What did she or Rowlesden hope to gain? Were they playing with his head? He slipped into his room and closed the door behind him, still thinking. He switched on the television, watched the news, channel-surfed for a while, and then switched it off. His mind was still full of the evening he'd just spent with Ms. Lewis. There was still one question buzzing around in his mind and no matter how he considered it, he could make nothing of it. He just didn't understand it.

Why on earth had Ms. Lewis kissed him?


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Sherlock spent the entire night fighting to sleep. He was exhausted, both mentally and physically, but for some reason, his brain wouldn't let him sleep. His mind kept going back to that kiss. What had been the point? If John had been there, he would have asked him all sorts of questions, like "Was it nice?" or "Did you enjoy it?" or "How did you two end up kissing?" The last would have been most likely. The problem was, likely or unlikely, Sherlock wouldn't have had an answer for any of them. He didn't know how it had happened or what he thought about it. It had just happened. One moment, he was looking up at the stars wondering just how much longer the farcical date would last, and then when he opened his mouth to ask a question, her lips...and mouth...and tongue...had met his. It had been the last thing he'd expected and he still couldn't make sense of it.

Had it been nice? What would make a kiss count as nice? Was it the kiss itself that was nice or did the way you felt about the person make it nice? As for enjoying it...he wasn't sure. It had certainly been all he could think about while it was going on, and it had been taking up a great deal of his thoughts then. Whenever he thought about it for too long, he could feel his face get hot. Was he embarrassed about the kiss? Had he enjoyed it and just didn't know it? Did all kisses make people feel so...strange?

He'd kissed before. Oh, yes, kissed, held, and far more. He was certain Mycroft didn't know about who it had been, but he had a strong feeling that John suspected who it had been. He knew for a fact now that sex did not scare him (even though when it became clear that _that_ was what was going to happen and he couldn't stop what was happening to either of them, he'd been so nervous that his state had almost reached fear) and that, yes, such an activity could be...enjoyable, especially if one's partner was a match for you, both physically and mentally. A few days with her and he'd learned the answers to all the things that had been mysteries to him until then. He hadn't gone to her aid intending for such things to happen; they'd just happened and swept the two of them along in their wake. As a...what would the term be?...initiation? Deflowering? No, that was ridiculous. Initiation, then. As an initiation, it had been more than satisfactory. When they'd said their farewells, their final kiss had been soft and sweet and utterly delightful. Even thinking of it now brought a smile to his lips.

That was what was missing from that kiss last night. He hadn't found it sweet at all. Not soft or sweet, and certainly not delightful in any measure. It had been more alarming than anything else. That was the great difference, then. It had alarmed him. If it had alarmed him, then he couldn't have enjoyed it, and it certainly hadn't been nice. Being kissed like that...no, it hadn't been pleasant at all. He hoped that in the future he would be able to avoid it. Well, in order to avoid it, he would just have to avoid being alone with Ms. Lewis. That was easy enough to do. He could ask Halmsley to be his chaperon. Simple.

After coming to that conclusion, Sherlock fell asleep at last, and he dreamed about...the woman. It wasn't surprising, given the direction of his thoughts before going to sleep. He dreamed about the time they'd spent together, how patient and loving she'd been, and how he'd felt when they relaxed together afterwards, just enjoying each other's company. He'd talked more in those few days than he ever had in his life, sharing secrets and thoughts that he'd never thought to share with anyone before. She'd shared a great deal with him, too, and he'd never divulged a word of anything she'd told him. What they'd shared with each other was just between the two of them, and it always would be. The fact that she'd wanted to spend those days with him and the fact that she'd wanted him...he'd actually been touched. Later, she'd told him that she'd been rather touched that he was willing to spend that time with her as well.

His dreams moved to other things then, like the cases he'd been working on and John and music and everything else, but he was surprised when the woman was suddenly there, her hands on his chest. He sighed, ready to enjoy her company in his dream for a while, but he could feel himself waking up. Disappointed, he sighed. Strangely, as he slipped into wakefulness, he realized that the dream had come with him. The hands were still on his chest, and one of them moved to caress his cheek. His eyes opened just as someone kissed him and when the person ended the kiss, he could see who it was.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked, staring at Ms. Lewis, dressed in a green silk slip. Why on earth was she sitting on top of him like that? What did she think she was doing?

"I came to say good morning."

He gave her a long stare. "Good morning. Why are you on top of me?"

"It seemed like the place to be."

Was there even a rational answer for that? If there was, would he want to give it? "Get off."

"Oh, why?" she complained. "You seem to like me up here."

What on earth was that supposed to mean? "Now you're lying," Sherlock said. "Get off."

She smiled. "No."

She leaned in for another kiss, but he put his hands up and pushed her away. He didn't like her being on top of him, as if she were sure of her welcome, and she didn't like the possessive look in her eyes or the ways he was touching him. It was making his skin crawl. "No. Now get off."

She stared at him. She looked as if she couldn't believe her ears. "What do you mean, no?"

"I mean no!" Sherlock said, raising his voice. "Get off!" He kicked, twisted his hips, and dumped her on the floor. She hit the carpet with a very satisfying thud and a loud squeal that could have shattered glass. He clambered out of bed, grabbed and pulled on his robe, and stormed out of the room, heading right to Rowlesden's room.

Enough was enough.

He brought his fist down with enough force that would have broken a lesser door and knocked the same way the Knell of Doom would strike.

"What?" he heard from behind the door. "What's the matter?"

"I need to talk to you, Rowlesden!" Sherlock shouted.

"Wh-what?" He heard rustling and then shuffling. A barely-awake Rowlesden opened the door and leaned against the frame. "What is it?"

"Keep her away from me," Sherlock snarled. "I don't want to be around her, I don't want to spend time with her, and most of all, keep her out of MY ROOM!"

"Who?" Rowlesden asked, clearly confused.

"MS. LEWIS!"

Rowlesden blinked and stared at him. "What was she doing in your room?"

He couldn't guess? Incredible. "She was sitting on top of me when I woke up. Make a deduction, why don't you?"

Rowlesden seemed to wake up then. It was clear that he was thinking about it. "Oh."

"Precisely," Sherlock said. "If I ever find her in my room again, you will have the devil's own time keeping me from killing her. I hope I've made myself clear."

"Here now," Rowlesden said, looking slightly alarmed. "You don't have to be violent, Mr. Holmes."

"I have every right to be," Sherlock snarled. "I've been kidnapped, held prisoner, forced to undergo a ridiculous regimen, subjected to countless indignities, and now, when my closest friend on earth is missing and in trouble, I'm _still_ being held captive and I have a woman chasing me and trying to force her tongue down my throat before I even wake up in the bloody morning! In case you haven't noticed, Rowlesden, I. HAVE. HAD. _ENOUGH_!"

Rowlesden looked shocked.

Sherlock turned on his heel and marched back to his room. He was happy to see that it was now empty of idiotic women. He showered, dressed, and headed downstairs for breakfast, still fuming. Not in the mood for anything hearty, he grabbed a few pieces of toast and some tea. He ate quickly, tasted nothing, and then headed outside to walk. He walked for about an hour, but then he approached the lake and the boathouse. Perhaps if he checked with Rowlesden he could take a boat out...oh, what the hell? He was tired of feeling like he had to ask permission for every little thing! Being held in this place had certainly done a number on his mind! He was going to do as he pleased when he pleased, and if Rowlesden didn't like it, then he would have to learn how to live with it. He managed to get a rowboat out of the boathouse, slid it down to the water, fetched oars, and a few minutes later, he was in the center of the small lake, floating under a blue morning sky. The only other boat in the boat house was a punt, and a woman did not have the upper body strength to handle that boat alone. He would be safe from rapacious women out in the middle of the water, and he doubted a polished woman like Ms. Lewis would want to swim out to him when he was in the middle of a lake. There were plenty of fish and there was pondweed and mud. Anything like nature, especially wet and muddy nature, tended to make such women shudder.

Out in the middle of the water, he could finally think. He found himself thinking about John. His friend. A friend was the one thing he'd never thought he'd have. It was wonderful to have someone he could trust, someone who tried his best to understand him, and someone who forgave him, no matter what he said or did. It still made him feel sick that John was missing. He hadn't been seen at all since Sherlock's kidnapping, and now it looked like he'd been kidnapped as well. Where had he been and what had he been doing before his kidnapping? What was he doing now? Were his captors treating him well? (If they did not, then they would have Sherlock to deal with, and he would make sure they would rue the day that they'd meddled with John.) Where was he? Would he ever see him again?

No, he refused to think that. Of course they would see each other again! They both just had to escape from their captors, bring the wrath of God down upon them, and then their lives would be able to go back to normal.

He must have fallen asleep after that, because he found himself dreaming. He was dreaming he was back in Baker Street. He was sitting in his chair, his hands clenched together, one leg jiggling up and down.

"And when you came home, you found the place wrecked and Dr. Watson missing?"

He looked up. There was good old Graham, looking deadly serious.

"Yes," Sherlock said, looking around the flat. It was a wreck, with things scattered everywhere and the pieces of the three broken tea mugs by his feet. "He's been kidnapped. We need to find him!"

"Who do you think might have done it?" Lestrade asked.

"I don't know," Sherlock said, getting up from his chair to pace. "I really don't. I wasn't here! I wasn't _here_!"

"Letting your emotions rule you won't help your friend, Sherlock," Mycroft said as Sherlock turned around and spotted him.

Sherlock felt his throat work. "They're not ruling me!"

"Of course they are," Mycroft said in that infuriating tone whenever he thought his younger brother was being stupid. "You're so worried that you can't think."

"Who could think with you blathering away like that?" Sherlock demanded. "Just once, I would love it if you would shut up and let me think!"

"Oh, don't be smart, Sherlock; we both know it's not your forte."

"Shut up!" Sherlock snapped, pacing again. "There has to be something! I haven't been here, John's not been seen for weeks, and the moment he comes back to Baker Street someone kidnaps him! Why? Why did the kidnappers wait until he came back to Baker Street?" Sherlock looked around his flat and surveyed the mess. Things were thrown about, books had been knocked from their shelves, furniture overturned...three broken tea mugs. If John had used one mug, then there had been at least two other people here with him. Why had they been in the flat? If John had been in hiding for all that time, then what would make him return to Baker Street? What?

Mycroft and Lestrade were wandering about the sitting room, looking at things. "It's interesting," Lestrade said at last. "All the things that are broken and not broken. You'd think that with a big struggle between a couple of men, more stuff would be broken."

"Odd, that," Mycroft said. "Careful kidnappers."

Sherlock turned around slowly, looking at things with new eyes. He was glad that the real Mycroft and Lestrade weren't here because he felt incredibly stupid. They were right. Why on earth had the tea mugs been broken but not his chemical equipment? Both were made of glass, but the mugs were broken, and his chemical equipment was not. He stared at the pieces of the broken mugs and thought. They were difficult to break since they were made out of heavy white crockery. He'd dropped many of them several times, and only once had he managed to break one. He'd been in the kitchen that time, and the mug had fallen out of the cupboard, struck the counter, and then broke into only three pieces on the kitchen floor. The pieces of the broken mug were in the sitting room; how could they have broken on a carpeted floor after falling only two feet from the side table?

The image of the broken mugs stayed in his head, along with the images of the unbroken chemical equipment and the image of John having tea with two faceless men.

He must have spent a good long time asleep, because when he woke up the light had changed. The red and orange light of dusk was filling the sky and he could hear people shouting for him. Carefully, he sat up and looked out over the water to the shore. Halmsley was standing there, looking around, and then he spotted Sherlock.

"There you are!" Halmsley shouted. "Do you have any idea how long we've been looking for you?"

Sherlock found himself smiling, amused. "No idea, but I'm sure you'll tell me."

"Are you going to stay out in the middle of the water all night?"

Sherlock sighed, took up the oars, and began rowing. He was amazed that the oars hadn't fallen into the water while he'd slept. Even more amazing, he hadn't tossed or turned. If he had, he might have ended up in the water. He reached the shore, Halmsley helped him out of the boat, and together they carried the boat back into the boathouse and shoved it back into its place on the rack. Halmsley put up the oars and together they headed outside and back towards the house. Welling and Meyers and even Rowlesden were outside, waiting for them.

"You were right, Halmsley," Rowlesden said as they walked up. "You knew where to find him. Where was he?"

"Asleep in a boat," Halmsley reported.

Rowlesden's lips twitched, and then a chuckle started deep in throat and worked its way up. Soon he was laughing out loud.

"What's so funny?" Sherlock wanted to know.

"In a boat in the middle of the lake was my favorite place to hide when I first came here," Halmsley explained. "It took them four months to work out where I was hiding. They only figured it out when I fell asleep in the boat and the boat drifted close enough for them to see that I was in it."

"Seeing you in that boat was the last thing I expected, I must say," Rowlesden commented. "You had us worried, Mr. Holmes. You were in such a state this morning."

"I'm all right, now," Sherlock said. His stomach growled, and he winced. He was far too used to eating regularly now. "Any chance of something to eat?"

"Are you daft?" Halmsley said, moving past them all to open the door. "Mrs. Burton has been creating culinary masterpieces since it became clear you were missing! She was hoping that the smell of the food would bring you back!"

"Oh, yes," Sherlock breathed, catching just a hint of Mrs. Burton's efforts. "No need to bring it up to the dining room; the kitchen is calling my name!"

"You go have a meal," Rowlesden told him. "Just...try not to fall asleep in any more boats, will you?"

"No promises," Sherlock said, heading at full steam toward the kitchen.

Mrs. Burton was just as good for fussing as Mrs. Hudson was. He sat down to enough food for an army and listened to her recite a list of worries about him that was a mile long, and then he was given dessert and hot chocolate.

"I just hope you sleep tonight after spending all that time asleep in that boat," Mrs. Burton said. "It's always better for you to sleep at night; I always say. Halmsley used to do the same thing when he first came. Poor boy caught cold once after being out on that water. Spent a week in bed and had Mr. Rowlesden worried sick over him."

"Did he?" Sherlock asked, hoping for more hot chocolate.

"Oh, yes," Mrs. Burton said, absent-mindedly filling up his mug. "That cold turned into bronchitis and he coughed for weeks afterward. He's got asthma, you know."

"I'd noticed," Sherlock said, sipping at the chocolate.

"All that damp air and the night air at the same time," Mrs. Burton shook her head. "Always a bad combination, that."

Sherlock finished that mug of chocolate and looked hopefully at the jug that held the chocolate. He didn't know why, but the chocolate felt good going down his throat. He wanted more.

"Last one, and then off to bed, you," Mrs. Burton said, pouring him a third cup. "Take a good hot bath to warm up, and maybe you'll hold off that cold I'm sure you'll have."

"What if I don't have a cold?" Sherlock asked cheekily. "What if I have pleurisy? Or a sinus infection? What about strep throat?"

"That's enough out of you, now," Mrs. Burton reproved. "You finish that cup before it gets cold and then off to bed with you. You need to keep warm."

Sherlock did as he was told and then headed upstairs to his room. He took the suggested bath and soaked in the water for a good long while, with the water as hot as he could stand it. He could feel his muscles relax and when he got out of the tub he was surprised at how tired he suddenly was. Oh, well. No matter. It was probably all the food he'd eaten that made him feel so sluggish. He'd feel better later.

He curled up in bed with a book, read for a while, and then he found he couldn't keep his eyes open. He was asleep before he switch off the light.

He found himself dreaming again, but this time, he dreamed that he was still in Rowlesden's house. It was in the middle of a party and people were crowded around him. He kept seeing someone he thought he knew, but each time he looked or tried to catch sight of that person, someone would get in his way or keep him from trying to find him. They began to press in close, surrounding him, and making it hard to breathe. They were far too close, his head pounded, his throat was on fire from the heat...

He jerked awake and toppled out of bed, hitting the floor with a thump. He wrestled with his blankets and fought to get to his feet, but his coordination seemed a little off. He coughed, and the hollow sound of it gave him pause.

Oh, no.

He coughed again, and the sore throat, the cough, and the headache convinced him. Mrs. Burton had been right. He was sick.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

Being sick anywhere and anytime was no picnic, but being sick while you were being held captive had to be the worst thing in the world. You were completely in the power of your captors, and if they decided not to take care of you until you were back on your feet, then you were basically on your own. Fortunately, his captors were taking admirable care of him and strangely, that worried him.

When Halmsley had brought him his morning tea, he'd been in bed for a few hours, trying desperately to go back to sleep. He was tired, his head ached, his throat was sore, and the cough he had was making him miserable. He had a feeling that if he went back to sleep he would wake up and feel better, but so far, sleep had eluded him. Halmsley had taken one look at him, poured him a cup of tea, and then left before Sherlock could say anything. Sherlock sipped at the tea, winced at the heat on his throat, and set the cup aside. Maybe now that he'd drunk something he could go to sleep...

He was woken up before he could really say he'd slept. Dr. Black was there, insisting that he wake up so he could be examined. Sherlock groaned, coughed, and swore under his breath before agreeing to sit up long enough for the doctor to take a look at him. He missed everything that was said, but he did remember Dr. Black and Halmsley talking back and forth for a while. At long last, a cup of water appeared and two pills.

"I'm not taking anything," Sherlock said as soon as he realized that he didn't know what the tablets were. He would drink the water, but he wasn't going to take any strange medicines. All of his survival instincts were in high gear and it was going to be a fair job to get them to switch off again, he knew that for sure. Right now they were telling him to be on his guard. Who knew what they would try to give him when he was vulnerable?

"These are acetaminophen tablets, Mr. Holmes," Dr. Black said as Sherlock's head cleared. "They'll bring your fever down."

Fever? That might have been why he'd been feeling so odd, then. He took the pills and drank all of the water and gladly accepted a second glass when Halmsley offered it. Dr. Black began listening to his chest with his stethoscope, requesting Sherlock to breathe deeply each time he moved the stethoscope bell. He then used an otoscope to look at Sherlock's ears and throat. As soon as Dr. Black said he could lie back down, he dropped back into bed, coughing.

"You'll feel better as soon as your fever breaks," Dr. Black told him, fiddling with something in his black doctor's bag. "How long have you been feeling poorly?"

"I had a headache last night, and my throat felt odd. I woke up this morning feeling like this. I thought that if I went back to sleep I would feel better."

"Hmmm," Dr. Black said thoughtfully. "Can you open your mouth so I can look at your throat one more time?"

Sherlock opened his mouth and a second later he felt something rub against the back of his mouth, making him gag and cough. He pushed Dr. Black's arm away and glared at him. "What...was...that?"

"Just a swab for strep," Dr. Black said, tucking the swab into a plastic tube. "Some more water ought to get rid of that feeling."

Sherlock took the glass that Halmsley held out to him and sipped at it. "How does my throat look?"

"Irritated, and not quite right," Dr. Black said. "Too early to say for sure. We'll know once I run this culture."

"Wonderful," Sherlock croaked. He felt terrible. "I won't have to go back to the infirmary, will I?" The thought of returning to the infirmary depressed him so much that his mind was close to bordering on panic.

"Not unless you take a turn for the worse," Dr. Black assured him. "This illness can most likely be treated with medicine and rest, and you can do that up here in your room just as easily as you could do it down in the infirmary. You might even rest better up here since this room is more familiar to you."

Sherlock sighed, deeply thankful that he wouldn't have to go back to the infirmary. "I'm glad. All my books are up here, and it wouldn't have been fair to ask Halmsley to lug an entire library down there."

Halmsley chuckled. "I don't think I could do it. The rooms down there are a lot smaller, so where could we put them all?"

Sherlock started to chuckle, but it turned into a cough. He tried to stop coughing, but it was difficult, and by the time the coughing spell stopped his chest was hurting. Whatever he had, it was a plague from Hades, that was for sure and certain. Halmsley fetched him more water and he sipped at another glass, thankful that it did something to ease his throat.

"You should have some breakfast," Dr. Black said once Sherlock was comfortable in his bed and the coughing had ceased. "Your body needs the nutrients, so I'll ask Mrs. Burton to prepare something for you. Halmsley will bring it up. I want you to stay in bed until you're better."

Sherlock looked at him. "With the way I feel, doctor, you won't have any argument from me. Bed is the only place I'm interested in being right now."

"Good to know," Dr. Black said.

Sherlock ignored them both while they left and he was able to doze for a while before Halmsley appeared with the promised breakfast tray. There were scrambled eggs, a piece of toast, and some fruit, as well as a glass of fruit juice. He managed some the eggs, half the toast, a few bites of fruit, and drank all of the juice before wrapping himself back up in his blanket. He slept for a while, woke up long enough to use the WC, washed his face, and crawled back into bed. He didn't feel like going back to sleep so he turned on the television and watched talk shows for most of the morning. Watson had once said that he regretted introducing Sherlock to "crap telly," but Sherlock did enjoy watching it. People on such shows were a lot of fun for practicing deductions.

For lunch, there was chicken noodle soup, bread, a creme brulee, and more fruit juice. He managed a bit of everything and then found himself falling asleep. He didn't dream, for a change, and when he woke up, Dr. Black was there.

"Ah, you're with us," Dr. Black said, smiling at Sherlock. "Feeling any better?"

Sherlock shook his head. If anything, he felt worse. "No."

"Well, I've good news for you," Dr. Black told him. "We can rule out strep since the culture came back negative. Based on your symptoms, I can say that you have a nasty case of pharyngitis and bronchitis. A double-whammy has hit you. You're going to need an antibiotic and plenty of rest until you're better. I've already sent someone to the pharmacy in town, and you can have your first dose this afternoon with your tea, all right?"

Sherlock nodded and pulled the covers over his head. He didn't care. At that moment, all he wanted to do was go back to sleep, but now that he was awake, it was impossible to doze off. Then a thought occurred to him. He sat up and looked at Dr. Black. "How long am I likely to feel this way?"

"Not long. Once you start taking the antibiotic, you should feel better in two or three days."

Sherlock winced. It sounded like a short eternity. "If I took some more acetaminophen, would the time be shorter?"

"Not in the slightest," Dr. Black said. "However, keeping your fever down will help you feel better."

Sherlock took the acetaminophen when Halmsley offered it, and by the time Halmsley brought him some tea, the antibiotic had arrived and Sherlock took his first dose. The capsule tasted absolutely foul, but a few bites of his pudding got rid of the awful taste. After tea he hunkered down in his bed and watched a movie on television before switching over to the news. There was nothing but reports on the economy, unrest in the Middle East and Eastern Europe, and reports on politics. The announcer had a soothing drone of a voice and Sherlock was almost asleep when a familiar name jerked him awake.

"So far, there has been no news in the kidnapping of Dr. John Watson, the man known for being the blogger of the renowned consulting detective, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," the announcer said. "Scotland Yard has not yet reported any breaks in either case, but Detective Lestrade stated this morning that he remains optimistic that several leads may yet pan out."

"What leads?" Sherlock croaked. "What leads could there possibly be?" If there were any leads at all, it was likely that they were being bungled. Drat.

Sherlock switched off the television after the report ended and dozed again for a little while. He woke up when Halmsley came, carrying an armful of newspapers and magazines for him to read. For the first time since he'd been sick, he felt enthusiasm for something. Reading always made him feel better. He spent a good few hours reading the magazines and papers and he was occupied with them until Halmsley brought him an early supper. There was a lamb chop, mashed potatoes, and French beans, as well as apple crumble for dessert. After eating Sherlock watched a movie, read some more, and was wondering if he ought to try going to sleep when Halmsley arrived.

"Dr. Black said a soak in a warm bath would do you good. Would you like me to draw one for you?"

Sherlock thought about it. "If you can find a pad of paper and a pencil, that would be great."

It took Halmsley only a second, but he started chuckling. "I think a proper bath in a tub would be more comfortable, don't you?" So saying, he went into the bathroom and turned on the water.

Sherlock gave the tub enough time to fill up before getting out of bed and going into the bathroom for his soak. Halmsley left, saying that he was just going down to the kitchen for a bit. Sherlock lolled about in the water for almost an hour, going nicely lobster-pink and then pulled himself out of the tub and into the clean nightclothes Halmsley had left for him. He went back to his bed and found that Halmsley had replaced the sheets with crisp clean ones that were scented with lavender. The scent brought back memories of Mrs. Hudson and he collapsed into bed, momentarily overcome with homesickness. If he were home, Mrs. Hudson would be fussing over him with countless cups of tea and her home cooking and her chatter. He often pretended that her chattering annoyed him when in fact it had the opposite effect: someone else in the world knew he was there and wanted to talk to him. He and John talked every day, but at first, he'd thought that John had been a sport; a once-in-a-million chance that could never happen again. The fact that someone like Mrs. Hudson, ordinary in every way but for her heart and her ability to care for others, enjoyed his company was very heartening. His own mother had shown him a distant but still warm affection, but that affection had been like a few drops of water on ground that craved a waterfall. Mrs. Hudson was the waterfall.

He felt tears sting his eyes and he told himself sternly that if he kept thinking that way he would end up crying, and that would be a waste of time and energy. He slid between the sheets and stretched out, trying to make himself comfortable. He'd just settled into a comfy position when Halmsley returned, carrying a tray with a cool drink for him and his evening dose of medicine. He swallowed the pill and chased it with the drink while listening to Halmsley talk about Mrs. Burton.

"She misses you," Halmsley said, surprising Sherlock. "She says it's too quiet down in the kitchen now."

Sherlock chuckled and covered the cough by taking a sip of his drink and swallowing. "Did she? Did she tell you that she gave me a cooking lesson?"

"She said you did pretty well at it, too," Halmsley added. "Are you feeling better?"

"Not yet," Sherlock admitted. "I hate how being sick makes you feel. I'm so tired, but I've done nothing but lie around all day."

"Dr. Black said that he's surprised you haven't been sick more," Halmsley said, straightening the newspapers that Sherlock had left scattered on the floor by his bed.

Sherlock glanced at Halmsley, confused. "Why would he say that?"

"I asked the same question. Dr. Black said that sometimes when you're run down, the body becomes more susceptible to catching illnesses since it can't fight them off as effectively. He was surprised that your first illness was simple fatigue, rather than something like what you have now."

"He's probably cursed me," Sherlock groaned. "From now on, every illness out there is going to find me. You'll probably come back tomorrow and I'll have the Black Death or smallpox or some such."

"You might have cursed yourself by saying so," Halmsley joked.

Sherlock looked at Halmsley, suddenly thoughtful. "You're...well, you're different this evening. What's different about you?"

Halmsley smiled. "Nothing."

Sherlock looked him up and down. "It's not new shoes. You've not had a new haircut. That suit is identical to all the others you've worn..." There was something; if only he could put his finger on it! When he looked at Halmsley's face, though, he had it. "You're smiling. You're smiling a lot more than you usually do, I mean."

That made Halmsley smile again. "Am I?"

"You are," Sherlock insisted. "You really are. What's made you so happy? Has Rowlesden met with an unfortunate event?"

"No, Mr. Snicket, he has not."

Sherlock was immediately confused. "Who is Mr. Snicket?"

"The pen name of one of my sister's favorite writers when she was younger," Halmsley explained. "He wrote a series of books called 'A Series of Unfortunate Events' and she loved to have me read them to her. As for why I'm happy...are you to sick to put your deductive powers to work?"

"You should have pity on the sick, Halmsley," Sherlock said, thinking. "However...challenge accepted."

He settled back into his pillows and started to consider his entire day and all the times he'd seen Halmsley. He thought about Dr. Black, Mrs. Burton, Halmsley...and who he hadn't seen. "Has Rowlesden gone somewhere?"

Halmsley grinned and started laughing. "Spot on! Well done!"

"Where has he gone?"

"London."

Sherlock felt rage flood him. "London?" He was so livid that it was suddenly hard to breathe. "That stuffed shirt who was so adamant that I couldn't possibly go to London just decides to take himself off to the city for the day? That heartless bastard!"

"Mr. Holmes, please calm down," Halmsley said, sounding rather alarmed. "If I'd known you would be this upset, I would have said that Rowlesden was sick as well."

"It's nothing you did or said," Holmes said, fighting for calm. But, oh, it galled! It galled the very soul! "I just really, really want to hurt Rowlesden right now! If I were in London, I would be able to find John! Every minute I'm not there the trail goes colder, but Rowlesden doesn't seem to care about that!"

"Rowlesden doesn't seem to care about the happiness of other people; he just loves his control."

Sherlock looked at Halmsley. "Let me guess. He loves only the control he can have over others, and not the people he controls. Am I right?"

Halmsley nodded. "You're very perceptive. You see, he controls a lot of things through the people he controls. He calls them all his friends and he calls them esteemed members of the society he founded, but he's the one who really calls the shots. They don't do anything without his approval. If any of them were to go against him, he would burn them."

Halmsley's words reminded Sherlock of Moriarty, and he shuddered. "What, exactly, does he control?"

"As far as I can tell, multiple large companies in a variety of fields. As soon as someone becomes successful and they seem promising to Rowlesden, he takes them under his wing, and then they can't get out of the spider's web that they didn't realize they were entering. It's all very civilized and they're treated as friends, but they know there's nothing they can do to get away from him. Most of them are just as devious and heartless as he is, though, so don't feel too sorry for most of them. Some, though, are just good people caught up in something bad, and Rowlesden seems to enjoy reminding them of that. Some of the members of the society actually started out as guests brought here for..." Halmsley trailed off, all of his earlier good humor gone.

"Their own good," Sherlock finished. "What happened to those who didn't join the society?"

"Nothing much," Halmsley said. "At least, nothing that could be traced back to Rowlesden. Some of them went back to very ordinary lives, but the majority of them have had wretched streaks of bad luck. Jobs lost, work dried up, homes foreclosed, and so on."

Sherlock felt bile rise in the back of his throat. Rowlesden was just as sadistic as Moriarty. Moriarty, at least, had mercy on some people, allowing them to die after a while, after he'd felt that they'd suffered all that he could heap on them. Rowlesden kept people alive and under his thumb for their entire lives, playing with them the same way a cat would play with a mouse. No, Rowlesden wasn't even as merciful as the cat; the cat would not prolong a mouse's suffering until the end of its natural lifespan. That was what Rowlesden was doing; holding a bunch of mice prisoner and tormenting them.

That unconscionable bastard.

"I do so hope that his trip to London is a miserable one," Sherlock said with all of the venom he possessed.

Halmsley gave a grim smile. "I've been hoping that he gets mugged."

That won a smile from Sherlock. "I'll add my hope to that. With both of us concentrating on that thought, there might be enough brain power in the air to make it happen."

Sherlock went to bed soon after Halmsley left for the evening. Halmsley had left a bell by Sherlock's bed, telling him to ring if he needed anything at all in the night.

"I'm hardly a child, Halmsley," Sherlock said. "I'm sure I'll be fine."

"You are ill," Halmsley reminded him. "I don't care what you need or what time it is, I want you to ring that bell if you need anything. Understand?"

Halmsley was so emphatic that Sherlock nodded. "All right. Thank you, Halmsley."

Sherlock fell asleep around ten or ten-thirty. For a while his dreams were just a mish-mash of pleasant nonsense, but suddenly the loud chimes of a clock woke him, and he found himself lying on a sofa in a large, dreary room with a fireplace behind an iron grate. He sat up and saw his reflection in a mirror. He was dressed in a tuxedo, ready for a formal party. Strains of odd music crept into the room from behind the closed doors, and against his will, he found himself getting up and going toward the doors, his hands reaching out to open them.

Before he could touch the doors, they swung open without a sound, disgorging two lines of faceless Halmsleys, who ushered him out into the hall. "They're waiting for you, Mr. Holmes."

"Who?" Sherlock demanded, frightened by what he was seeing.

The Halmsleys didn't answer but began pushing him toward the doors at the far end of the hall. He found himself pushed into a large ballroom blazing with light, and Rowlesden and all of his friends were there, clapping at his arrival and greeting him. Their smiles were fixed, far too wide, and they showed far too many sharp teeth. Rowlesden, though, was the worst, with eyes that saw everything and teeth that glistened and clacked against each other when he spoke.

"I'm so very pleased you've decided to join, Mr. Holmes," Rowlesden gushed, his teeth clacking as he threw an arm around Sherlock's shoulders and drew him close. Sherlock shuddered as he saw bits of what he hoped was meat between Rowlesden's teeth.

"Join what?" Sherlock gasped, too frightened to breathe. Why were the other guests circling him like they were? All of them were staring at him, as if deciding just where to bite. The worst was Ms. Lewis, she had taken hold of his arm and would not let go.

"The society, of course," Rowlesden said, beginning to circle Sherlock as well. "Your doing so won't only benefit you, but it will benefit those you care for, as well. Your parents...your brother...Mrs. Hudson...Molly...and of course, John Watson."

Panic surged in Sherlock as he turned and turned, trying not to turn his back on anyone. "Join the society?"

"Oh, yes," Rowlesden purred, his teeth becoming even sharper. "You'll find it quite rewarding...after a while. Once you're used to it."

Rowlesden and the sinister party guests drew closer, some of them licking their chops.

"Stay away from me," Sherlock warned, fighting hard to force the fear down.

"Don't be frightened," Ms. Lewis said, her teeth growing a full inch in front of Sherlock's eyes. "It won't be bad for long."

Sherlock looked wildly around the room, praying for an exit. He could see Halmsley in the far corner of the room, chained in a golden throne. Halmsley looked at him, the hopelessness in his eyes almost heartbreaking. "Run, Sherlock. Run, if you can." Even though he whispered, the sound carried itself clearly to his ears.

He didn't know where he found the strength, but he managed to push through the crowd around him and he ran, not caring which direction he was going as long as it was away. He could hear the growls and snarls of Rowlesden and the other party guests following him, and he heard the click of the shoes that the faceless Halmsleys wore, all of them pursuing him to drag him back to that nightmare of a party.

When he'd begun down the hall it had seemed endless, but suddenly it came to an end. A large, gilt-edged mirror covered the entire wall facing him, and in it he could see his countless pursuers of monstrous party guests and faceless Halmsleys, and at the front, was his reflection; wearing a tux, pale, and wide-eyed. Sherlock turned his back on his reflection, unwilling to meet his doom with his back turned on them.

"Be careful, little brother," he heard.

He whirled, but saw only the mirror. He looked at the creatures making their inexorable way toward him and then looked back at the mirror. There, standing right behind his reflection, was Mycroft.

"Mycroft?" he gasped.

"It's not only the east wind that can come to get you," Mycroft said gravely.

"I don't know what to do!" Sherlock cried, the panic making it impossible for him to think.

Mycroft gave a sad smile. "Sometimes, Sherlock, you have to call on the west wind for help."

"What does that mean!" Sherlock screamed at the mirror. He glanced at the reflections of the things that were coming for him and he pushed against the mirror, trying to make it move.

A gentle hand clasped itself on his shoulder, and Sherlock couldn't say how he knew it, but he knew that that hand would not hurt him. The hand pulled him away from the mirror and then squeezed his shoulder, offering him comfort. He looked at his shoulder and saw no hand there, but when he turned his head back to the mirror he saw John standing beside him, smiling. One of John's hands clasped Sherlock's shoulder, and Sherlock knew without words that somehow, even with those creatures coming for him, things would be all right. Just as the nightmare creatures were about to reach him, the floor disappeared from under his feet and he dropped like a stone, screaming.

"Sherlock!"

"John!" Sherlock screamed, one single word making its way past his fear.

"Sherlock!"

That...wasn't John. Gummy eyelids slid opened and he found himself staring at Halmsley, who had him by one shoulder and was looking concerned. "Halmsley?" he croaked.

"Are you all right?" Halmsley asked, worry all over his face.

"I was dreaming?"

"It must have been one hell of a dream," Halmsley told him. "You were screaming in your sleep. Are you all right?"

Sherlock swallowed, but his stomach continued to crawl up his throat. "I'm going to be sick."

Halmsley got him to the WC just in time and then helped him clean up and helped him back to bed, where Sherlock lay, clutching a pillow as if it would save him from drowning in his own feelings. Halmsley stayed with him, talking about nothing in soothing tones, and Mrs. Burton stopped by to see if anything was wrong. She'd been able to hear Sherlock all the way from her room, and the screaming had unnerved her. Halmsley assured her that Sherlock had only had a nightmare and that he would be all right once he'd calmed down a bit. Mrs. Burton left but came back about ten minutes later with a cup of hot chocolate for the both of them as well as a plate of biscuits. Sherlock ate and drank without tasting anything and let himself drift on the tide of Halmsley's words.

"You needn't worry about having nightmares," Halmsley said. "I had them, too, when I first came. Sometimes I still have them. They don't get better, but after some time passes, you at least know what to expect, and being frightened doesn't last as long."

Sherlock nodded. "I would be fool if I thought they would get better."

"Would it help if you talked about your dream?"

Sherlock shuddered and swallowed hard. "No. I'll get sick again."

Halmsley nodded and kept talking. Sherlock couldn't take in a word of what Halmsley was saying, but the other man's voice was soothing and quite nice to listen to. Idly, Sherlock wondered if Halmsley had ever studied voice. Singers usually had lovely speaking voices. Finally, he felt as if he could sleep again, so he turned on his side and let Halmsley's words wash around him. He was sure that Halmsley wouldn't mind. He was almost asleep when Halmsley asked him a question. He turned over and looked at Halmsley. "Sorry?"

"I asked if there was anything you would like before you go to sleep."

Sherlock felt a tiny smile quirk the corners of his mouth. "The west wind."


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

Over the next two weeks, Sherlock had the strong feeling that his nightmare had unnerved everyone in the house. Halmsley checked up on him hourly, Dr. Black checked on him morning, afternoon, and evening, and Mrs. Burton spent time with him whenever she wasn't cooking. He was still ill enough to be in bed the greater amount of time, and oddly, he found he didn't mind it. His bed was comfortable, and there were plenty of books and newspapers and magazines to read, he had a television to watch, a sketch pad and pencils when he wanted to draw (it wasn't the best idea to paint in bed), and he began writing a very long monologue on his laptop that consisted of his reflections on detective work. He would nap after lunch and spend most of his time just relaxing and amusing himself.

That had been what Rowlesden had wanted, after all. Now he was relaxing, all day, every day.

The weather turned decidedly bleak. It began with clouds that covered the sky and they slowly morphed into thunder clouds. After two days of menacing clouds hanging over their heads, the heavens opened up in an act of vengeance, pelting the towns and people below with unrelenting rain. It was dreary and gray and made Sherlock feel...well, oddly flat. He felt as if nothing would change, no matter what he did or said, and there was no point in trying. That thought alone was depressing, but he forced himself not to think of it. He distracted himself with music or the television or a book, and eventually, he would find his mood...not getting better, but slowly moving to a state that was less doleful. Whenever his mood became too difficult to shake off, he would ring down to the kitchen (Halmsley had installed a bell system for him, and depending on the button, he could ring either to the kitchen or to Halmsley's room), request a hot chocolate, and then as soon as he was warm from the hot drink, he would be able to take a short nap. He always felt better after doing that, but he noticed that he began to do it more and more.

Rowlesden returned after two weeks in London. When he finally stopped by to see Sherlock the detective saw right away that his trip had not been an easy one. There were dark shadows under his eyes and a tired slump to his shoulders. He looked more like he'd been around the world without a night of sleep rather than on a trip to London.

"I'm sorry to hear you've been ill, Mr. Holmes," Rowlesden said as soon as he arrived. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm feeling a great deal better," Sherlock said as Rowlesden dropped into a chair. "How was your trip?" If Rowlesden had been mugged, would he mention it?

"Trying," Rowlesden said. The fact that he'd openly said what he was thinking without concealing anything was very telling.

"Trying? In what way?"

Rowlesden leaned his head back and sighed. "Nothing seemed to go right, from the time I arrived to the time I left. The entire experience would try the patience of a vetted saint."

Sherlock nodded. It sounded as if Rowlesden had had a miserable time. He fought to keep from smiling. Good. "May I ask why you'd gone to London?"

"A slight emergency which required my attention," Rowlesden answered. "Nothing to worry you."

Sherlock looked him directly in the eye. "Nothing to do with John?" If Rowlesden didn't give him a definite answer he would do something violent. If Rowlesden had gone to London to find John and then refused to tell him, then there would most likely be a homicide. He was sure he would be doing the world a favor.

Rowlesden shook his head. "No. Our sources are still searching, and so far they've found nothing. I wish it were otherwise."

Sherlock felt his heart give a dreary little thump. He'd been sort of hoping that Rowlesden might actually find something. Still, what was it that people said? No news was good news? Well, he supposed that was something to keep in mind. Irritating, but there it was.

"I haven't seen Dr. Black yet," Rowlesden said, shifting in his chair. "Has he told you what this illness of yours is?"

"Bronchitis and pharyngitis mixed," Sherlock sighed. "It's...annoying."

That actually won a smile from Rowlesden. "Only you would put it that way," he said. Then he looked at Sherlock. "You've been sick for two weeks? Shouldn't you be up and about by now? Have you been taking your medicine?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I should be, and I finished my antibiotic four days ago. I have no more symptoms aside from fatigue. Dr. Black says that I seem to be taking longer than usual for someone of my age to throw something like this off. I've been feeling tired a lot, so Dr. Black suggested that I rest. I've been doing a lot of that. Resting."

"Don't you get bored?"

"I've been too tired to be bored, really. I've been napping a lot, reading, watching the telly, and so on. I'm fine."

Rowlesden's eyebrows shot toward his hairline. "You must be tired."

Sherlock fiddled with the edge of his blanket. "I wouldn't lie about that."

Rowlesden nodded. "I know. Is there anything you would like?"

It was ironic that he could literally ask for _anything_ and he would get it, but he couldn't think of a single thing. He could ask for books, DVDs, new music, games, his favorite foods, a state-of-the-art something...and he couldn't think of a single thing. "Maybe some hot chocolate? I've become very fond it of lately."

"I'll ask Halmsley to bring it up for you," Rowlesden promised. "If you think of anything else you'd like, then please let me know. I'll make sure you have it."

"Thank you," Sherlock said politely, and ten minutes later, Halmsley arrived with the hot chocolate.

"I think you surprised Rowlesden," Halmsley said as Sherlock took his hot drink.

"In what way?"

"I think he expected a lot of groaning and complaining about boredom, but he said that you seemed rather...well, docile."

"I'm bored, but I'm also tired," Sherlock reminded him. "I'm too tired to complain."

"Mrs. Burton's getting worried," Halmsley said. "She said that it's not like you to be so...quiet."

"I'm just tired," Sherlock repeated. "Is there anything going on out there in the wider world?"

"Don't you watch the news every morning?" Halmsley asked, confused.

"I mean here in the house. What's going on in the house now that Rowlesden's back?"

"Welling and Meyers and Company are all in foul moods," Halmsley reported, understanding at last. "Ms. Lewis, who has been very quiet the whole time you've been sick, is now showing signs of life."

Sherlock felt his lips twitch in irritation. "Is she still here?"

"Yes, and she's seemed depressed," Halmsley confirmed. "She'll keep to her room or the rose garden, and occasionally she'll go out riding, but nothing else."

Sherlock tucked that information away for later. "What's Dr. Black been up to?"

"Aside from fretting about you? Not much. He's been reading a lot lately, mostly books on nutrition and mental health and so on. I think he's worried about you."

"I'm fine," Sherlock stated.

"No, you're not," Halmsley contradicted. "But you're all right."

Sherlock gave Halmsley a long look. "Why do you think I'm not fine? And isn't 'all right' the same thing?"

"You know they're not," Halmsley said, dropping into the same chair that Rowlesden had sat in.

For all the time that Sherlock had known Halmsley, he'd also known that the butler did not waste words. Everything he said had meaning behind it. "They're not? What's the difference?"

Halmsley smiled. "You already know the difference, Sherlock."

Sherlock thought about it. "I can remember when you wouldn't call me by my first name," Sherlock said, fighting for time to think. "You used to say that Rowlesden insisted on formality."

Halmsley clasped his hands on his knees and shrugged. "He's not here. And...I'm feeling a bit rebellious, that's all. So, what's the difference?"

Sherlock smiled and thought a bit more. "'Fine' is when there's nothing wrong. 'All right' is when you're able to manage."

Halmsley grinned. "You're right."

Sherlock shifted in bed, settling deeper into his pillows. "How on earth did you come to that understanding? Most people never grasp it."

"My life for the past seven years has helped."

Sherlock nodded. "Yes. You've never come straight out and said it, but I know that you're as much a prisoner here as I am," he said, glancing at Halmsley. Usually, he couldn't get this far with Halmsley in a conversation about himself. He was getting close to the line, here. "There's just one thing I don't understand...Rowlesden brought you here, and now you work for him as his house steward and butler? How did that happen?"

Halmsley gave a bleak chuckle. "You've not been able to figure it out? You, the great detective?"

"It's been driving me mad, but no matter how much thought I give it, I can't figure it out," Sherlock confessed.

Halmsley nodded. "Shall I take pity on the sick and tell you how it came about?"

"Oh, I wish you would." If he knew how it had happened, then he might have a better understanding of Rowlesden, and then, with knowledge on his side...

"I needed something to do," Halmsley said.

"You've said that before," Sherlock remembered.

"I have. I...needed something to do that was completely different from what I'd always done. I could fool myself, you see, when I started working as a butler. I could tell myself that I was only working in a job and...it was the only way I could stand it, being held prisoner like this. When I'm working, I don't feel like myself, I feel like...Halmsley."

Now that was interesting. "Your real name isn't Halmsley?"

Halmsley shook his head. "No. My proper name is James. James Wright."

The name struck him right away. There was something...something in the back of his mind. Something about James Wright...an artist...something...He shut his eyes and immediately his mind palace was there, with Halmsley standing in the front entryway. He said nothing, but he gave a small, sad smile. He turned and began running, running directly to the room that Sherlock used to store all of the cases labeled "unsolved disappearance."

Sherlocks' eyes snapped open. "You disappeared seven years ago. You were an artist that plenty of people in London were talking about then. You had a showing at the Tate Gallery. Then, shortly after the showing, you disappeared. You were brought here?"

"A month after the show," Halmsley said quietly. His shoulders were hunched and he was leaning forward in his chair. Not good. His body language was screaming that he wanted to stop talking about this.

"Rowlesden wanted you to join his wretched secret society?" As soon as he asked the question, he felt stupid. Of course that wasn't the answer. "No, that's not it. All of Rowlesden's members are people involved in energy, finance, scientific engineering, stocks and bonds, research, armaments, pharmaceuticals...all very lucrative fields. What would he need an artist for? No, he brought you here for another reason."

Halmsley shot out of his chair and headed for the door.

"Wait!" Sherlock said sharply. "Please, Halmsley. I can help you. I know you don't want to be here."

Halmsley stopped, but he didn't turn around. "I don't want to be here," Halmsley said quietly. "I've never wanted to be. For a while, I thought I'd go mad, being here. Seven years later and I'm still sane. It's nothing short of a miracle, really. I've done what I had to do, and I've done what was needed. I have to stay."

He sounded so hopeless that Sherlock felt his heart wince in sympathy. "For how long?"

Halmsley turned and smiled at him. "Until I don't have to stay any more. Is there anything you'd like me to bring you, Mr. Holmes?"

Just like donning a mask, Halmsley had slipped back into his role of butler. Disheartened, Sherlock shook his head. "No, thank you, Halmsley."

"Very well, sir. Please ring if you require something."

* * *

A few days after his talk with Halmsley, Sherlock felt well enough to leave his bed. He got dressed, joined Rowlesden and Ms. Lewis for breakfast (he kept his words to her very brief and chillingly polite), and then he went outside for a walk. He didn't go far beyond the east garden before he became tired. Drat it all, he was still not up to snuff yet. How irksome. Fortunately, he found a handy hammock strung from two trees. With the shade and warm breeze and the hammock, it was the perfect place to rest. It wasn't long before he was stretched out in the hammock, pleasantly dozing. He breathed in and out, hoping to lull himself into actual sleep. If he slept, he would feel much better.

"Mr. Holmes?"

He jerked awake, not sure if he'd slept or not. He found himself staring at Ms. Lewis. "What do you want?"

"I wanted to talk to you," Ms. Lewis said, a worried crease forming between her eyebrows.

"And now you have," Sherlock said, swinging himself out of the hammock and to his feet. He turned and started walking. "Good morning."

"Can't you let me get just two words out before you walk away?" she demanded, storming after him.

"No," Sherlock said flatly, still walking away. He glanced behind his shoulder and then glanced again. "Why are you following me?"

"I said I wanted to talk!"

Sherlock planted his feet and let ice flood his eyes. "I can see I won't get rid of you until you've said what you wanted, so out with it. Once you've said it, I can get on with my day. What are you so set on saying to me?"

She came to a stop in front of him. "I wanted to say I was sorry. I am sorry for how I behaved. I shouldn't have done what I did."

For a moment, he couldn't believe what he was hearing. Weeks had gone by, he'd been ill, and only _now_ she thought to apologize? Incredible. "Apology accepted." He turned back toward the house and kept walking.

"Is that all you're going to say?" she asked, still following him.

"That's all I need to say," Sherlock answered. "Is there anything else I should say?"

"You could stay for a chat," she suggested.

"That would suggest that I wanted to talk with you, and I don't," Sherlock retorted. "Now, do stop following me. People will begin to think you're a stray cat."

He reached the house at last and slipped in the back door. Mrs. Burton was delighted to see him and told him so. He received several hugs, a kiss on the cheek, and then a sound scolding.

"You've not been taking care of yourself; that's why you've been ill so long," Mrs. Burton said, bustling around the kitchen. "I would say serves you right, but nobody deserves to be ill, dear. Did you eat breakfast this morning?"

"With Rowlesden and Ms. Lewis," Sherlock assured her. "I had a croissant, a dish of fruit, some yogurt, a soft-boiled egg, some mushrooms, and sausage. I had plenty to eat."

"Good to hear," she said, quickly peeling a potato before cutting it up and placing the pieces in a pan of water.

Sherlock watched her as she cut up another potato. "Is that for lunch?"

She nodded. "Shepherd's pie made with beef," she said, picking up another potato. "You need some proper food. Your color's still not good. You're pale naturally, but you're really pale right now."

"So far, it's been a difficult morning. That might account for my lack of color," Sherlock said, washing his hands. "Mind if I help?"

"You're just getting over being ill, and you still look like your own ghost," she protested. "No. You sit still and rest."

"I've been resting for weeks," Sherlock said, locating his apron on its hook. "I'm ready to do something. If you let me help, I promise to eat an entire plateful of pie at lunch as well as dessert."

Mrs. Burton tilted her head to the side and appeared to think about it. "Now, that's an offer, that is," she said. Sherlock could tell that she was mightily tempted and she was thinking the offer over. He could practically see the wheels turning in her head as she thought about it. "Do you promise to have a nap after lunch?"

Sherlock grinned. "Done. Would you like me to help peel potatoes?"

"With two sets of hands, they'll be done faster," she said. "Then, once they're set to cooking, you and I will be able to pick a good dessert. Berries are in season, so we'll have to choose a good one."

Sherlock felt his mouth water. "Something decadent with cream, like a berry shortcake."

"Oh, now I like that idea."

A few hours later, after he'd helped with assembling the pie and the shortcake, Sherlock headed up the stairs toward his room to clean up before lunch. The kitchen had been rather warm, so he'd sweated a bit, and his clothes were covered with flour and a few smears of butter. Still, it had been a pleasant morning. He was halfway up the stairs when his foot slipped and he stumbled. With the way he landed he knocked the breath out of his chest and for a few moments, he was stunned and unable to draw breath. He lay on the step where he'd fallen, waiting for his diaphragm to start working again. He'd always forgotten how much that hurt!

"Who's there?" he heard Rowlesden demand, coming out into the hall. From the floor below, he wouldn't be able to see Sherlock on the stairs, and Sherlock had no breath to tell him that he was on the stairs, in great pain and unable to breathe.

"Anyone there, Rowlesden?" Dr. Black's voice asked, joining Rowlesden in the hall.

"Just my imagination," Rowlesden said. "Now, you were saying?"

"I was saying that I was worried about Mr. Holmes," Dr. Black said. "He shouldn't have been so fatigued by his illness, and he...well, he doesn't seem himself."

"How so?"

"He seems depressed," Dr. Black said. "I know we see that with the majority of guests you bring here, but it's more worrisome in his case. He's been in this house for close to a month, now."

"He's confined to the house for a month," Rowlesden said. "That's his penalty for sending those letters."

"But why punish him for something that wasn't even a problem in the first place?" Dr. Black wanted to know. "You knew what he was going to do and took steps from preventing the letters from being noticed. Why give him a penalty for that?"

"Because he disobeyed me," Rowlesden reminded him. "That's why."

Dr. Black sighed. "I am worried about Mr. Holmes, Rowlesden. Very worried. Despite eating the special diet that is designed to help someone put on weight, he's losing weight. He doesn't sleep well. He may not remember them, but most nights he has nightmares. His jaw is permanently clenched and he spends a lot of time with his hands curled into fists. He suffers a great deal from tension headaches. Being kept here against his will is getting to him."

"Hmm," Rowlesden said. "Well, that sounds normal. Once he accepts being here, he'll be better."

Sherlock felt his diaphragm move and he was able to breathe. He concentrated on taking quiet breaths, both so Rowlesden and Dr. Black wouldn't hear him and so that he could hear them. He wanted to hear what they were saying. More than anything else in the world, he wanted to hear them.

"I don't think he's going to accept being here," Dr. Black said. "He's showing the same behaviors as Halmsley, Rowlesden."

My, my, my. Now that was interesting.

"And Halmsley has been here for seven years, with no demands that I let him go for the past six years and six months," Rowlesden snapped. "He's _accepted_ being here, Dr. Black. With time, he'll come to think of this place as home. He just needs more time."

Dr. Black sighed again. "Rowlesden, keeping Halmsely prisoner is no way to make him love you. I know you know that, so why...?"

"I can't bear for him to be away from me," Rowlesden said quickly, obviously wrestling with a strong emotion. "If you'd seen where they were living...they were practically destitute, Black. I couldn't stand the thought of my Jamie in that tiny little flat, living on whatever meals he could cobble together from a bare pantry. He was the most highly-regarded artist at the time, but it certainly didn't pay well. So, I took matters into my own hands. I brought him here and made sure he would stay. Now he can be taken care of, properly, and in time, he'll come to enjoy being here. All it will take is time. Not only will he want to stay, he'll be happy. I'm sure of it."

"I hope you're right," Dr. Black said, the tone of his voice clearly stating that he knew not to pursue the topic of Halmsley any further. "As for Mr. Holmes...I think he may need a night out."

There was a pause in the hall below. "A night out?"

"To cheer him up. To help him shake off his lethargy and depression. A change of scene could be very beneficial for him."

Another pause. "What would you suggest?"

"I've been reading Dr. Watson's blog posts," Dr. Black said. "All the posts that talk about what Sherlock Holmes is like as a person. Did you know Mr. Holmes is passionate about music?"

"Of course," Rowlesden said, sounding confused. "I had his violin brought for him."

"Dr. Watson also mentions being 'dragged' to musical performances and the theater by Mr. Holmes."

Well, that was surprising. John didn't like the theater? After going to shows together, John had always stated that he'd had fun.

A short chuckle from Rowlesden. "Dragged?"

"Dr. Watson did not appreciate having his own plans altered whenever these performances took place," Dr. Black explained.

"Which performances?"

"Dozens," Dr. Black said. "They've been to see ballets, operas, the London Symphony, plays of all sorts...I was thinking...on the third, there will be a performance by the Royal Ballet in London. They'll be performing _Swan Lake_ and Dr. Watson did mention that Mr. Holmes goes to see it as often as he can. I think that going to London and seeing something he enjoys will help Mr. Holmes immeasurably."

Rowlesden let out a bark of a laugh. "You want me to take him to London? Impossible! He'll be impossible to handle in London! At the first opportunity he'll try to slip away and...no, no, no. We can't do that."

"We just need to take the right precautions," Dr. Black said at his most persuasive. "Change his appearance, make sure he's escorted, and we can both go with him. If need be, we can handcuff him to one of us."

"Oh, that would make such a pretty picture in Covent Garden," Rowlesden scoffed.

"Okay, we'll think of something else," Dr. Black said. "But I'm afraid I must insist on your getting Mr. Holmes out of the house for at least a night. As his doctor, it is imperative, do you understand, Rowlesden?"

Rowlesden gave a grunt and Sherlock heard the tap of his shoes on the floor below. He seemed to be pacing. "We'll talk some more about this later. It's almost time for lunch. The last thing Mr. Holmes needs to hear is that we might be considering taking him to London. He needs to relax, not have his brain cells fire off about this."

Sherlock waited until both Rowlesden and Dr. Black had left the hall and gone into another room. He picked himself up off the stairs and ran up them as fast as possible and all but flew to his room, grinning. London! They were possibly going to take him to London! Oh, that would be brilliant! On his home ground, anything was possible, and he had the advantage!

London was calling!


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

Sherlock didn't change anything in his behavior. He couldn't let Rowlesden and Dr. Black suspect that he'd heard them. Now, of all times, he had to make sure they did not become suspicious. He kept behaving exactly as he had been, although it was difficult to act depressed and despondent when hope was welling up inside his chest every day. He read, watched the telly, drew and painted, played the violin, and even joined Rowlesden or Dr. Black in an occasional game of chess. Nothing was said about London or the ballet, but Sherlock had a strong feeling that they wouldn't tell him until the last minute. Until then, he was willing to wait.

He wasn't able to spend all of his time being despondent, however. Ms. Lewis continued to be an annoyance. If he left his room and went to another part of the house, say the conservatory or the sitting room downstairs, she would inevitably show up. When he went to the game room one day for a pack of cards she'd been there, as if lying in wait for him. Whenever circumstances forced him to speak to her he was coldly polite, but her constant presence and insistence on speaking to him was beginning to drive him to distraction. One afternoon he went for a walk outside and was circling the lake when he saw her coming. He found himself completely unwilling to deal with her that day. But where could he go? If he kept to the path, she would reach him, and if he left the path and struck out across the grass or went through the orchard she would most likely follow. That left the lake, but he couldn't...He stopped and looked at the lake. Possibly...he ducked into the cattails and returned to the house an hour and a half later, soaked and muddy, but he'd managed to evade her successfully. Who knew she'd look for him so long?

He went to the kitchen door to avoid tracking mud across Rowlesden's expensive carpets (even though the git deserved it) and he earned a sound scolding from Mrs. Burton.

"What do you think you're doing?" she gasped, seeing the soggy state of his clothes as he took off his shoes just outside the door. There was no point in covering Mrs. Burton's clean floors with mud and pondweed. "Where on earth have you been?"

"The lake," Sherlock admitted. "I had to hide from someone."

"Couldn't you have found somewhere _dry_?" Mrs. Burton demanded, yanking him into the kitchen and plonking him down on a stool in front of the fireplace.

"It was the closest place to hide, and it allowed me to get away."

"You're risking your death!" Mrs. Burton snapped. "You hear me, young man? Just getting over being ill, and you go and jump into the lake! I never!"

He smiled, but made sure she couldn't see it. She sounded just like Mrs. Hudson in high dudgeon. With Mrs. Hudson, any sort of dudgeon was dangerous, but high dudgeon could be lethal to some. It was good to know that Mrs. Burton could be the same way. Oddly enough, hearing her in high dudgeon was...comforting. Mrs. Burton pushed a hot mug of chocolate into his hands and ordered him to drink it all down as soon as possible, bringing him out of his introspection. He complied, enjoying the flush of warmth that came with it and the warmth from the fire. Once the chocolate was gone Mrs. Burton plucked the mug from his hands and ordered him upstairs to have a hot bath.

"A half hour bath, at least," she told him, pulling his arm toward the back stairs. "You're to soak for a half-hour, and then I'll be up to check on you. Dress warm once you're out of the bath, do you hear?"

"I hear, Mrs. Burton," he said meekly, giving the older lady a smile. That same smile could melt Mrs. Hudson, and it had the same effect on Mrs. Burton. She gave him a grudging smile and sent him off upstairs with a light smack on the shoulder. He made his way upstairs and encountered Halmsley when he was almost to his room.

"What on earth!" gasped Halmsley. "What did you do, swim the lake?"

"A bit," Sherlock agreed.

Halmsley stared at him. "No. Just...no. Really?"

"I was trying to avoid Ms. Lewis," Sherlock said as he opened the door to his room.

"I often feel the urge to run away as quickly as possible when she's around, but there has to have been a better way," Halmsley said, following Sherlock.

"This was the most effective," Sherlock told him. "I'm going to have a bath on Mrs. Burton's orders. A hot one." He didn't want to admit it, but he was starting to feel cold. If he started coughing or sniffling, he could end up back in bed, or worse, the infirmary.

"You do that," Halmsley said. "I'll find you something warm to wear once you're done."

"Thank you, Halmsley," Sherlock said gratefully. "That would be wonderful."

He soaked in the tub until he resembled a prune. A very, very pink prune. The heat had soaked into his very bones and once he was done washing, Halmsley appeared with some jeans and a flannel shirt, guaranteed to keep him warm. Mrs. Burton was there with hot chocolate and some biscuits for him and it wasn't long before he was cozy on the sofa, holding a cup of chocolate and cocooned in a blanket. The only way that things could get better at that moment was if Scotland Yard stormed the house.

He dozed a little and was woken by Halmsley in time for dinner. He changed into an outfit a bit more appropriate for dinner and headed downstairs, humming a tune that had been drifting around in his head for the past few days. He was sure that at some point he would have to write it down; it was rather a nice one. It might be something he could entitle "John's Theme" or just "John." The tune reminded him of his friend, constant and steady with little surprises here and there.

He spent more time the next couple of days composing and telling himself that he was NOT getting sick again. His ears didn't feel right and his throat was a little scratchy, but he REFUSED to even contemplate or consider any evidence that he was less than healthy. If he became ill, then Rowlesden and Dr. Black would cancel the trip and that was the last thing he wanted to have happen. He was not going to let anything stand in his way of going to London. He spent the time as he had been since the beginning of his visit; reading, watching television, listening to music or playing the violin, and of course, having massages and relaxing and eating delicious meals.

Rowlesden and Dr. Black could not suspect anything.

He continued his cooking lessons with Mrs. Burton as well. Such lessons had tangible results, and more than once he would enjoy the fruits of his labors at the lunch or dinner table. He mastered stoved chicken, pheasant with mushrooms, coq au vin, chickent curry, beef and Guinness, chicken and ham pie, and, oh, the sweets! When he got home, he would have to show John just what he'd learned. He knew that John had a sweet tooth sometimes, and he was sure that his flatmate would enjoy his newly-mastered sticky toffee pudding, baked apples, castle puddings with custard sauce, and bread and butter pudding.

Dinner a few nights later was superb, and the whole meal had something of a festive air about it. Mrs. Burton had outdone herself many times before, but this time surpassed all the others. There were Roquefort and scallion tartelets, mushroom soup, Nicoise salad, veal ragout with traditional French bread, and Holmes had a full serving of each. For dessert, there was a vanilla blueberry creation of a cake with an exquisite glaze drizzled over it. He didn't even know what it was called, but it was delicious past description and he was happy to accept a second serving when Rowlesden offered it.

"I'm pleased to see you have such a good appetite tonight," Dr. Black said as Sherlock finished his second slice of cake.

"Well, everything's delicious tonight," Sherlock said, leaning back in his chair with a cup of excellent coffee. "The food is always delicious, really, but tonight...I don't know what the term would be. It's excellent."

"Mrs. Burton will be glad to know that," Rowlesden said, glancing at Dr. Black, who then nodded. "She said that a night like tonight deserved something special. Mr. Holmes, I have to say that I'm pleased with your behavior for the past month. You haven't complained about being confined to the house and grounds, and good behavior such as you've displayed deserves a reward."

Sherlock sipped his coffee before answering. "What are you thinking?"

Dr. Black spoke up. "We were thinking of taking you to London to see the Royal Ballet."

Sherlock almost dropped his coffee cup but he managed to save it in time to keep any coffee from being spilled on the tablecloth. "London? The ballet? Really?"

"Would you like to go?"

Sherlock stared at him in disbelief. Was the man mad to ask such a question, or merely an idiot? "See a premier ballet company in my favorite city? Of course! What are they performing? And when?"

"They're performing _Swan Lake_ on the third," Rowlesden said. "We'll be going in the afternoon that day, have dinner out, and then after the ballet we'll be staying overnight in a hotel and returning here the following morning. How does that sound?"

Sherlock couldn't sit still for a moment, starting to get up and then re-taking his seat, and he grinned, elated. "It sounds marvelous." Then, his face went blank and he groaned. "The third...how am I going to wait _four_ days?"

Rowlesden chuckled, heartily amused at Sherlock's despair. "I think you'll manage to bear it until it's time to leave, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock fixed Rowlesden with a snarky glance. "Yes, I know that, but my question is...how?"

Dr. Black, Rowlesden, and Ms. Lewis all started laughing. They could tell from Sherlock's expression that he didn't find it funny at all, which made them laugh even more.

Sherlock went up to his room that night, satisfied with how things were going. Let them laugh. Things were going well, and he wasn't about to let anything bother him. He had to keep focused.

* * *

Sherlock followed Rowlesden and Dr. Black into the hotel suite and was happy to drop onto his bed. The car ride had worn him out, and Dr. Black and Rowlesden kept trying to make conversation with him when all he really wanted to do was think. Three hours in a car had given him a better idea of just how far from London they'd taken him. The windows had been covered and he could not see into the front seat where Welling was driving, so he'd been unable to see any road signs, but a glance at a map before they left and a quick look about the one time they'd stopped for something to drink at a filling station enabled him to guess where he was being held captive. At least, he knew roughly which part of the country he was in. He still wasn't sure if he was being held near Wolverhampton, Derby, Leicester, Peterborough, or King's Lynn, though. If a driver was good and traffic favorable, all of those places could be reached within three hours or so. He'd never driven to any of those places himself, so he couldn't be sure.

There was one profoundly-depressing event in the whole trip. When they'd walked into the lobby of the hotel, the concierge had rushed forward to shake Rowlesden's hand, welcoming him.

"I am so pleased you've come, sir!" the concierge gushed. "As you can see, we are running things perfectly for you."

Sherlock had wanted to start swearing and stop only when his voice gave out as the concierge and Rowlesden talked about the many details that went into running the hotel as the concierge showed them to their suite. As it was, he settled for gritting his teeth.

Rowlesden owned the hotel.

Sherlock had hoped that he would be able to slip some sort of message into the mail or perhaps bribe a member of the staff so they would agree to contact Mycroft, but he knew it wouldn't be safe. He was sure to be found out. He would have to think of something else...something extremely devious, if he had any hope of pulling it off.

Holmes rolled over and brushed his hair away from his forehead. His hair had been dyed again, this time to a deeper shade of reddish-brown. The contacts and glasses were in his bag, ready for the evening. A suit was ready for him as well, as ready as he was for a dinner and evening out. He took a quick shower, shaved, dressed, including the contacts and glasses, and left his room, joining Rowlesden and their entourage in the sitting room of the suite.

"I have to say, Rowlesden, this is a lovely hotel," Sherlock said, taking a seat in an armchair. The decor was positively decadent, with damask and velvet and brocade everywhere one looked, along with precious woods and plenty of gilding and crystal chandeliers. If Rowlesden had set up the decor, then he must have spent a fortune.

"One of my many diversions," Rowlesden said, waving the praise away. "Are you ready?"

"More than," Sherlock said. "What restaurant are we going to?" If he was lucky, then it would be somewhere the wait staff knew him.

"Laurent's," Rowlesden told him. "It is new, but the service is very good."

Sherlock nodded, hopes dashed. Ah, well, one couldn't hope for too much, too soon. Laurent's was a very new restaurant, but the papers had been full of positive reviews, praising the food, the decor, the chefs, the service, and so on. From what he'd read, Laurent's was a restaurant that served several cuisines, giving guests an astonishing choice, and the restaurant's wine cellars were said to be superb. It was also close to Covent Garden, so it made sense to go there.

They headed back downstairs and the concierge practically fell all over himself to wish them a pleasant evening. They got back into their car and then it was off to Laurent's. It was everything the papers had said it would be; with crisp white tablecloths, excellent food, restful decor, and lovely background music. It also turned out to be one of Rowlesden's many diversions and practically all the diners that evening were Rowlesden's society members. Sherlock told himself not to be frustrated; the evening was still young and anything could happen.

Laurent's lived up to its boast on its menu. There were choices from English, French, German, Russian, Italian, Spanish, and Indian cuisine on the menu and it took close to twenty minutes just to read the entire list of offerings, excluding the wines. Sherlock settled on a spinach salad, tomato soup, beef stroganoff, and for dessert, syllabub. He ate just enough to shut his stomach up and sipped at a glorious glass of champagne while he waited for Rowlesden and the rest of his escort to finish up. At long last, it was time to head off to the ballet.

Seeing the white stone and colonnaded facade of the opera house was like seeing an old friend. Sherlock wasn't allowed to linger outside appreciating the architecture, however. He was ushered inside, through the lobby, up the stairs to the Grand Tier, and through a door into a box. He glanced at Rowlesden, who was settling into a seat. "You rented a box?"

"A few boxes," Rowlesden said as Dr. Black and Welling took seats. "Ms. Lewis is next door, along with the rest of our escort."

"I thought Welling was our escort," Sherlock said, sinking into a chair.

"He's only the one who travels with us," Dr. Black explained. "The rest of Welling's colleagues are along for the trip as well, but as a group, they tend to draw attention, so they're scattered through the rest of the boxes on this tier."

Sherlock told his head not to pound as he settled back in his seat. "I see."

"You didn't think we'd take any risks with this trip, did you?" Rowlesden asked chummily.

"Not in the slightest," Sherlock admitted. The orchestra began to tune then, and Sherlock turned his attention to the stage.

A full orchestra was a treat to hear, and to see the music acted out by excellent dancers made the music all the better. He watched the celebrations of Prince Seigfried's coming of age, the goblet dance, the pas de trois, and the scene where the flock of swans flew overhead, drawing Seigfried away to the lake. He saw Seigfried and Odette meet, their dance, the dances of the swans, and Seigfried's and Odette's goodbye. During the intermission they went to the bar in the Hamlyn Hall for a drink, and returned to the box in time for the next act. He saw the arrival of the princesses, Seigfried's refusal of all of them, and then Rothbart's and Odile's arrival. He watched them dance through the whole scene and he found himself spellbound during the famous thirty-two fouettes. He was sure that dancers the world over cursed Pierina Legnani for introducing thirty-two fouettes into dance repertoire, but audiences adored the sequence. The applause as the dancer on stage finished the herculean task was nearly deafening, and Sherlock added his own applause to everyone else's. A fine artist such as the young lady taking her bows deserved such praise.

The final act was heartbreaking. The swans danced, mourning their lost chance at freedom and Odette's broken heart. Seigfried arrived, contrite and begging for forgiveness. Odetted danced with him, still broken-hearted, but at last she forgave. Rothbart's arrival sent a shiver through the audience. Rothbart stated that he had seen Seigfried betray Odette and that the spell could never be broken. Triumphantly, he invoked the spell that would transform all of the maidens back into swans and began to usher them away, but Seigfried fought to hold onto Odette. Odette, at last realizing that she would never see Seigfried again, leapt from the cliff into the lake to escape from Rothbart. Crushed and unable to live without his love, Seigfried followed Odette from the cliff, his love and Odette's sacrifice breaking the spell over all the swan maidens. Defeated, Rothbart died, his power lost, and the swan maidens welcomed the sun before the curtain came down.

Sherlock sat back in his seat with sigh and a smile on his face. The curtain came back up for curtain calls and bows and the company received a standing ovation. Sherlock was on his feet, clapping along with everyone else when something across the auditorium caught his eye. Some woman's jewelry had caught the light...He looked, and then he looked again before feeling the blood drain from his head. He'd been sitting across from this person the whole night...had he been seen? He ducked down into his seat again, making sure to slouch so he would be hidden.

"What's the matter?" Rowlesden asked, noticing his behavior.

"I think there's someone here that knows me," Sherlock confessed.

"What?" Dr. Black groaned.

"Why didn't you say something?" Rowlesden demanded, looking furious.

"I am saying something!" Sherlock said, fighting to keep his voice down. "I didn't see this person until now!"

"And they saw you?" Rowlesden wanted to know.

"I'm not sure!"

"How can you not be sure?!" Rowlesden growled, grabbing Sherlock's shoulder and giving it a shake.

"I've been looking at the stage all night, not at the people across the way!" Sherlock retorted, more than a little tired of Rowlesden. "I can't be sure they didn't see me!"

"And why not?" Rowlesden snapped and he and Dr. Black and Welling bustled him out of the box and toward the stairs.

"You got us seats on the Grand Tier!" Sherlock said. "People sit in the Grand Tier to be _seen_, you know! People will look at you if you sit there, especially if you're in a box!"

"So it's _my_ fault if our cover is blown?" Rowlesden said incredulously as Welling pushed his way through the crowds and to the outside.

"Yes, it's your fault!"

Rowlesden looked ready to push him into traffic, but Dr. Black reminded them both that it was unlikely that Sherlock would be recognized with his altered appearance and that they couldn't be sure if Sherlock had even been seen. Even with Dr. Black playing the mediator all the way back to the hotel, Sherlock was ready to spit nails with all of Rowlesden's complaints and sermonizing about being careful when they were out.

"I've had enough," Sherlock said as they entered their hotel suite, a headache threatening to pound his skull to pieces. "I'm going to bed. We can't be sure if I was seen, and I look different enough so it's even odds that I wasn't recognized even if I was seen. Listen to Dr. Black, Rowlesden, he's got a sensible head on his shoulders. I'll see you in the morning."

He marched straight to his room, took a hot bath in order to calm himself down, and crawled into bed once he was dressed in nightclothes. He lay on his back, surrounded by pillows, but his mind wasn't calm enough to let him sleep. If he had been seen, then what was he going to do? Of all people in the world who could possibly be the one person who could lead to either his liberation or to being held prisoner even longer, it was _her_.

_The Woman_.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

Sherlock was in a snit for the entire car ride back to the house. He was woken up incredibly early the morning after the ballet, rushed through a pathetic breakfast of toast and tea, and then bundled into a car before he could even finish pulling on his coat. With that, they were on their way out of London and back towards...well, captivity.

He couldn't believe that they were reacting this way simply because he might have been seen. It wasn't as if Irene had stood up, pointed at him, and shouted, "That's Sherlock Holmes!" He wasn't even sure if she had actually seen him. He'd done as Rowlesden had asked and that was to tell him if he saw anyone he knew or anyone who knew him, and now his trip was being cut short all because he'd seen someone he knew who _might_ have seen him.

He should have just kept his mouth shut. Why on earth hadn't he stayed quiet? Why had his first thought been to tell Rowlesden? Why hadn't he kept knowledge of Irene to himself? Ten to one Irene hadn't even seen him and there'd been no reason to worry in the slightest. Because he'd been unable to stay quiet, he'd lost out on spending more time in London and was going to back to his imprisonment early. What was wrong with him? What sort of prisoner behaved the way he'd been behaving, obeying his captor and settling in and everything else?

There had to be a reason. When all of this was over, one way or another, he would find out just what was wrong with him.

The traffic wasn't helping his mood any as they went over a bridge. Something…was going on on the right side of the bridge and cars were being diverted to the far lane. At least five of the police were on the bridge, along with a photographer and an ambulance and EMTs. More than one of the police were looking over the side of the bridge and into the water. Had someone fallen, or worse, jumped? He shuddered. He didn't want to think about it. All the traffic on the bridge meant that the whole thing had become some sort of grisly sideshow.

Time crawled even more slowly than the traffic. It was better to think of something else. He sat back in his seat and thought, wondering just what Irene was doing in London and why, of all places, she had gone to the ballet. He couldn't recall her ever mentioning such an interest, so…why?

He stayed awake until they left London's suburbs and then he found himself dozing off. That was okay; sleeping was better than thinking at the moment. He was still fuming over missing out on more time in London. He'd been hoping to convince Rowlesden to go someplace else, like maybe Harrods or Hatchards. If possible, they could have had lunch out somewhere afterward, but no.

Blast it.

He woke up briefly at one point as they turned off the highway and drove down a country road. He wasn't interested enough to stay awake, so he closed his eyes again. When he woke up again they were stopping outside a small stone house in a sleepy little village. He sat up, confused. "Where are we?"

"We've stopped at a nice little place about an hour from home," Rowlesden told him. "Did you have a nice nap?"

Sherlock ignored the jab about his nap. "Why have we stopped here?"

"For lunch," Rowlesden said, checking his watch. "It's about twelve-thirty. Are you hungry?"

His stomach decided to be a traitor and growled audibly. He cursed the fact that he'd gotten used to substantial meals and that he'd only had some toast and tea for breakfast that morning. "Unfortunately, yes. This place is...?"

"A very nice restaurant," Dr. Black, said, getting out of the car. "Let's go."

Sherlock followed Dr. Black and Rowlesden inside with Welling right behind him to make sure he went where he was supposed to go. The interior of the restaurant was gorgeous with dark wood and cream wallpaper and dark red carpeting. The whole color scheme reminded him of the woman, and it took a herculean effort not fall down laughing right in the entryway. That there should be reminders of the person who had ended his trip to London here, of all places, was a bit much.

A tuxedoed waiter came forward to greet them, Rowlesden signed the register, and they were led to a table. Menus were distributed and perused and Sherlock felt his eyebrows shoot toward his hairline when he saw some of the prices. It was a very good thing that Rowlesden was the one footing the bill since even the most modest-priced item on offer made his mental pocketbook cringe. The man was made of money if this was the sort of place he chose for lunch!

"Choose whatever you like, Mr. Hayes," Rowlesden said, sticking to his alias. There were, after all, strangers about, and they could not afford to make anyone suspicious. "Everything here is excellent."

Sherlock looked at the menu again, and he had to admit that what he was reading did sound good. Pheasant with wild rice and mushrooms, chicken breast with honey-Dijon sauce and asparagus, Somerset pork with apples, beef in Guinness, roast beef with Yorkshire pudding, roast pork with sage and onions...he actually felt his mouth water! The desserts, though, were enough to make any sweet lover faint. There was trifle, cranachan, syllabub, chocolate blancmange, summer pudding, sticky toffee pudding, castle pudding, crepes suzette, blackberry charlotte, gateau au chocolat...the list went on and on. He wondered if Mrs. Burton knew about this place.

The waiter arrived to take their orders for drinks and then returned to take their orders for their meals. Sherlock settled on the Somerset pork with apples while Dr. Black had beef in Guinness and Rowlesden had something that looked like a very fancy shepherd's pie. Welling had some sort of chicken creation covered in a yellow sauce and poured over rice. For dessert, Sherlock indulged himself with a sticky toffee pudding and an excellent cup of tea and was feeling rather peaceful with the world when he'd finished it. The only blights over the whole meal was the company and the fact that he would soon have to return to his prison.

"I hope you'll enjoy this next bit," Rowlesden said once they were back in the car and pulling out of the carpark.

"What next bit?" Sherlock asked.

"We're going to an outdoor concert," Dr. Black said, smiling indulgently. "A pianist is giving a concert at the ampitheatre in the park near here, and we thought you would like to go."

Music...music outdoors, and played for him. He wondered what was on the program and then decided that it didn't matter. "That sounds wonderful," Sherlock said, elated that they weren't heading right back to the house. "Thank you."

Fifteen minutes later they reached the park, parked the car, and then headed into the park towards the ampitheatre. The park was beautiful, plenty of paths and benches, a lake, a flower and herb garden, and of course, a playpark for children. The ampitheatre was behind the gardens and Sherlock took a seat next to his escort, his focus on the stage in front of him. The pianist came out, bowed to the crowd, and took his seat, flexing his fingers. A moment later, Liszt's notes filled the air. Sherlock sighed and leaned back, more than ready to lose himself in the music. He sat through La Campanella, Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2, Totentanz, and he lost track after that. He just let the notes wash around him, like gentle ocean waves that wanted nothing more than to comfort him and carry him home. He came out of the spell of the music when the audience began to applaud, and he was one of the first to get to his feet for a standing ovation. The pianist took his bows and the audience packed up their blankets and jackets. Sherlock was still lost in the music with the final notes still running through his head as he got back into the car. "That was beautiful," he said at last, sinking into his seat. "Who on earth was that man, and why haven't I heard of him?"

"He's a young man I'm putting through conservatory," Dr. Black said. "He's a distant cousin of mine and he's had a wretched run of luck for most of his life. He deserves a chance to improve his lot and he is brilliant with music, so I made sure he had lessons and the things he needed and was admitted to his present school. So far, he's done very well."

Once again, Sherlock was surprised at how...multi-faceted Dr. Black was. The man was a constant surprise. He worked with Rowlesden, who was a boil on the backside of the world, yet he had taken this young man under his wing. He helped Rowlesden keep people prisoner, but he was kind to those prisoners and took care of them. If Dr. Black was so good, then why on earth had he thrown his lot in with Rowlesden? Nothing about it made any kind of sense.

"I was wondering if you would be willing to talk for a bit, Mr. Holmes," Rowlesden said as they pulled away from the park.

"Talk? About what?"

Rowlesden smiled. Always a bad sign, in Sherlock's opinion. "Well, first, I have to say that I am very impressed with how you've behaved on this entire outing. You obeyed my directions completely, you did not attempt escape..."

"There must be something wrong with me," Sherlock said flatly, voicing a fear that had been haunting him for the past few hours. "Here I am, a kidnap victim, and I didn't try to run when I had a chance."

"Oh, not in the slightest," Dr. Black put in. "Many kidnapping victims do not run when they're held for a good length of time. You thought of escape often while we were in London and again when we were in the park and restaurant, but you were also thinking of what would happen when you were caught, so you didn't try to run."

Sherlock stared at the doctor. "Are you telepathic? How did you know what I was thinking?" Escape had been a thought never far from the front of his mind, but how had the doctor known that?

"When someone has been under stress for a long period of time, then it becomes harder for that person to hide his emotions and thoughts," Dr. Black explained. "Rowlesden asked me to keep an eye on you."

"Oh, fabulous," Sherlock said tartly.

"Going back to my original topic," Rowlesden said, "I am impressed with how you've comported yourself for this whole trip. It begins to give me hope that you're coming around, so to speak. I think that with time, we'll be able to trust you to a greater degree. What do you think?"

"Trust me for what?"

Rowlesden gave him a pleasant smile that reminded him of what a spider would give a fly. "Why, to join the society, of course."

For a moment, he didn't feel anything, but then he went...well, sort of stony inside. Was Rowlesden serious? "I...don't know what to say." He didn't. He really, really didn't. Why on earth would he join the wretched society? Was Rowlesden mad? Why would he want to shackle himself like that? It would be horrible! He would continually be under Rowlesden's thumb, dancing to his tune, following his orders...His nightmare rushed back to him in full force and he had to fight the urge to start screaming and jump out of the car so he could run as fast as he could in the opposite direction. He forced himself to take a deep breath and then another. Just because they were offering for him to join did not mean that it was inevitable that he would. No, he already knew he would not, and he wasn't about to let himself be forced into it, either. There had to be a way to escape such a fate, and he would find it.

If he was forced to join, then Rowlesden would regret it, and Sherlock's death would be on his head, since he would kill himself within a month.

"You don't have to say anything right now," Rowlesden said, breaking into his introspection. "You don't have to give me an answer until you're ready, but please think about it. We would be incredible assets for you, and you would be an outstanding asset for us. We would all benefit in myriad ways, should you choose to join."

"I don't doubt it," Sherlock said, looking out the window. "Not in the slightest."

They must have sensed that he wanted to think, for they left him alone after that. He stared out the car window, his mind wandering and playing over countless scenarios for escape. All of them ended badly. His biggest challenge, as he saw it, was getting away and making sure that they would not try to take him again. Would he be able to go back to his normal life or would Mycroft attempt to put him into protective custody? To give Mycroft credit, he'd shown great restraint in not doing so for years, but surely the impulse would have been there. Sherlock could think of quite a few events that might have driven Mycroft to take his own brother into custody just to keep him safe, but the fact that he hadn't was heartening. It showed that Mycroft at least understood that Sherlock needed to live his own life, no matter how terrifying it was to those who cared about him.

He doubted that Rowlesden had anything like that same understanding.

A spot of traffic on the highway delayed them for a bit, and it was close to three o'clock when they pulled into the driveway to the house. They drove through the grounds in minutes and Sherlock saw the house up ahead, its welcoming facade a pleasant mask for the prison it truly was. He didn't see the huddled figure on the front steps until Rowlesden said something.

"Why is Halmsley sitting there like that?"

Sherlock looked. Halsmley was crouched on the steps, his face buried in his hands. When he heard the car his head came up, and it was clear from a distance that there was something terribly wrong. Anyone could see that he'd been crying.

Rowlesden was out of the car as soon as it stopped and running to Halmsley. "Halmsley! Halmsley, what is it? What's wrong?"

Halmsley stood, pale and red-eyed, swallowing hard.

"What's wrong, Halmsley?" Rowlesden pressed, gripping the butler's shoulders. "Please tell me. Has something happened to your sister?"

Halmsley shook his head. "No. She's fine. I...I...It's been all over the news."

"What has?" Dr. Black asked, sounding thoroughly mystified.

Halmsley leaned forward and started whispering. A second later, Rowlesden's face paled of color and he looked shocked. "It's been on the news?"

Halmsley nodded. "All morning. We tried to call you, but the calls wouldn't go through."

"Perhaps it's better that you didn't reach us," Rowlesden said, turning to look at Sherlock. He took a step away from Halmsley, but Halmsley reached out and put a hand on his shoulder.

"It might be better if I told him," Halmsley said quietly. "I flatter myself to think that he considers me a friend."

"What's going on?" Sherlock asked, beginning to feel nervous. A sick ball of fear had gathered in his chest and was making it heard for him to breathe. "Has something happened?"

Halmsley stepped closer to him and something in his face had Sherlock shaking his head. Already, he wanted to deny what he was about to hear.

"A body was found in the Thames this morning," Halmsley said, his voice raspy and thick. "The police identified the dead man as John Watson."

A gray film settled over his eyes, blocking out the world around him. It was as if he stood alone in a world where nothing existed, where nothing had ever existed, and nothing could or would ever exist. The world itself was quiet since there was nothing there to make any sound, but he could still hear...something. It was very faint, but it was getting louder. In a short time it had built itself up to a roar. What was that roaring in his ears? Where had it come from? He swayed as his balance left him and a second later, he felt as if he were either falling or flying. The roaring was worse now, increasing so much in volume that it was almost painful. In another minute, it would split his head open. A dead man had been identified as John Watson? How was that possible? It wasn't possible. It just couldn't be possible.

The roaring was starting to deafen him and from somewhere far away he could hear someone screaming. Who was that? Why were they screaming? He'd never heard anything so heartbreaking in all of his life. He was hearing the scream of a man who'd been torn apart.

"Stop!" he heard, someone else's voice breaking through to him. "Let go of him! You'll kill him!"

The gray film disappeared and the screaming stopped and he saw Rowlesden's face in front him, red with lack of oxygen. His hands were around the man's throat. How...convenient. "You bastard!" Sherlock screamed at him, feeling his throat ache. "You bastard! I wasn't there! I WASN'T THERE! You kidnapped me and you've been keeping me here, and all this time John was in trouble and I WASN'T THERE! He's DEAD now and I wasn't THERE!"

He didn't see Welling until the man tackled him, knocking him away from Rowlesden. Sherlock was on his feet again in a second, heading for Rowlesden, still intent on throttling him. The last thing that bloody bastard would see would be the face of his second to last victim. His last victim was John, and Sherlock would make sure he would make Rowlesden pay the entire debt.

A blinding pain on the back of his head made him go limp, and then there was nothing but darkness.

* * *

When he woke up it was dark except for a lamp in the corner. He was in bed, but he wasn't in bed in his room. It took him a minute to realize that he was in the infirmary. He shifted, stretching out his legs and wincing at the pain in his head. Given what he remembered, it was most likely that Welling had knocked him out. He would have to get his own back from Welling at some point, but right now he couldn't think about that. His mind was too full of other things.

Carefully, he tried to sit up, but restraints around his wrists kept him tethered to the bed. Why had they done that?

Some small noise he might have made made someone seated in the corner of the room jerk awake. "Sherlock?"

"Halmsley?" Sherlock rasped, his throat still sore from all the shouting he'd done. "Why am I down here?"

"You attacked Rowlesden," Halmsley said, getting to his feet and approaching the bed. "Welling knocked you out since you wouldn't stop trying to kill Rowlesden, and Dr. Black said that he was afraid for you, so you were brought down here so they could keep an eye on you."

"Afraid for me?" Sherlock repeated, confused. "Why would he say that?"

"He meant that he's afraid for your well-being and sanity," Halmsley told him, pouring him a glass of water and placing a straw into the glass so Sherlock could drink it. He held it out and Sherlock sipped the water through the straw. "You went absolutely crazy, if you don't remember, and you tried to strangle Rowlesden. With the state of mind you're in now, Dr. Black said that he was afraid you might do yourself a mischief."

"My safety isn't what he needs to worry about," Sherlock growled. "Where's Rowlesden?"

"Upstairs somewhere," Halmsley reported. "Welling and Meyers are down here with us. I volunteered to sit with you so you wouldn't have to see Rowlesden or Dr. Black."

"But Rowlesden's who I want to see," Sherlock insisted darkly. "Tell him to come down. I'm sure he won't regret the visit. Well, I won't, at least. He might."

Halmsley shook his head. "Welling says we won't see Rowlesden until tomorrow," he said. "I've already asked. You have a right to talk to Rowlesden about how his idiocy cost..." He trailed off, uncertain. "The last thing I wanted to do was tell you what I had to tell you today. I am so, so sorry, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked at him, past feeling. He wasn't sure if he would ever be able to feel anything again. "Why are you sorry?"

Halmsley was clearly wrestling with what he was feeling. "I've been here seven years. Seven years, and the first time I felt a real ray of hope that it might end soon was when you came here. Rowlesden had no idea what he was dealing with when he brought you here. You've given me hope, and I had to break the news to you that your friend was dead. I am sorry. I'd give anything to take it all back and to make it undo itself."

"You have nothing to be sorry for," Sherlock said. "Rowlesden is the guilty party here. He should be the one to apologize. You were right about one thing, though."

Halmsley looked at him, confused. "What?"

"One way or another, this will end."


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

He knew they were worried about him. He knew that they were checking in on him regularly, every fifteen minutes, just to make sure that he was all right. It didn't matter that he still had restraints on his hands; he knew that they didn't trust him not to somehow hurt himself. They were giving him a great deal of credit since he didn't quite know how he was going to kill himself while his hands were secured, but it was oddly flattering that they thought so. Halmsley and Mrs. Burton checked in on him the most, and Dr. Black made an appearance at least once an hour. The one person who never made an appearance was Rowlesden, and in Sherlock's mind, that was an unfortunate pity.

He wanted to see Rowlesden. For once, he _wanted_ to see Rowlesden. If Rowlesden came, then Sherlock would have a chance in taking John's death out of his flesh and bones. Oh, yes. He would make sure that Rowlesden paid his debt to John in full. Unfortunately, Rowlesden never came.

"Is there any chance I could see Rowlesden?" Sherlock asked Dr. Black two days after he heard the news about John.

Dr. Black looked alarmed. "You wish to see Rowlesden?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

Sherlock nodded. "I am sure."

Dr. Black appeared to think about it. "I don't think that would be a good idea, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock pushed down his frustration and kept his face and voice as calm as he could. "Why not?"

Dr. Black stared at him. "Why not? Well, the last time you saw each other, you almost strangled him."

"I did strangle him," Sherlock reminded the doctor.

"Yes, you did," Dr. Black said. "I meant tat you almost crushed his throat. I just don't…think…it would be a good idea for you to see him right now. I don't want you to try strangling him again. Let's give you some time, all right?"

"But why?" Sherlock complained. "I don't need time. I promise; I wouldn't try."

Dr. Black gave him a long, thoughtful look. "No, you wouldn't try. You're determined to succeed in strangling him, which right now is even scarier. No, it's not a good idea for you to see him now."

"But I _want_ to see him," Sherlock insisted. "Really. What if I promise not to strangle him?"

"Then you'll think of another way to cause him grievous bodily harm," Dr. Black answered. "Throttling, stabbing, bludgeoning…"

"Now there's an idea! Bludgeoning!" Sherlock said gleefully. "Thank you!"

Dr. Black gave him a _look_. Mycroft possessed a formidable one and Dr. Black's was almost a match for it. "No is no, Mr. Holmes. It would not be good for either of you for you to see Rowlesden right now."

That was that, it seemed.

He didn't do much in the infirmary. He didn't want to watch the telly, and whatever books or magazines Halmsley brought for him went untouched. Newspapers, it seemed, were verboten for the time being. He was sure that Rowlesden was keeping him from seeing a newspaper and consequently, any news about John's death. That particular fire against Rowlesden did not need stoking, and newspapers were sure to stoke it.

Despite not doing anything, he wasn't bored. His mind was providing plenty of stimulation for him. There were two things that he was constantly planning: his escape and Rowlesden's death.

He was sick of being stuck here. He was tired of Rowlesden and his goons, he was tired of being told what he could and couldn't do, and he was tired of being kidnapped. Worst of all, he had not been there to keep John safe. If he'd had the gumption to try escaping earlier, then John might still be alive. As it was, he had to plan his escape so he could find the people responsible for John's body ending up in the river. He knew every inch of the house and the grounds by now. He knew exactly how many cars there were in the garage, how many horses in the stable, and at least two different routes away from the house. He knew the locations of the nearest train stations. All he had to do now was plan it.

He approached his escape several times a day from several different angles. With distractions and without them, stealing a car or horse, heading straight to the train station or contacting the police first. All of those scenarios were promising since it meant he would be getting away.

Planning Rowlesden's death was just as diverting as planning his escape. He had enough ideas to fill the Bodelian twice over. All of them were gruesome, painstaking, and quite disturbing, if one thought about it. He would doubtless probably go to prison for the rest of his life just for the severity of the crime and he wouldn't care since Rowlesden deserved such an end.

Halmsley and Mrs. Burton were both tiptoeing around him. If he'd had the energy for it, he would have found it annoying. As it was, being treated as if he were made of spun glass was a bit annoying. Both of them were very solicitous about his health and they were constantly asking him if he needed anything. Halmsley brought magazines and books, DVDs, books full of crossword and number puzzles, recipe and cookery books, and little things that he thought might interest Sherlock. He brought little collections of bird feathers, leaves, rocks and pebbles, flower petals, grasses, and once, even snail shells and challenged Sherlock to tell him which part of the grounds they'd come from. At one point Halmsley even showed up with a box full of the ends of different cigarettes, hoping that they would spark Sherlock's interest. (Sherlock was able to tell after a few minutes that the cigarettes were all from Welling and Company. All eight of them smoked.) Sherlock always accepted all such challenges from Halmsley since the poor man put so much work into it, but his heart wasn't in it, and his mind was focused on other things.

He lost track of time again. It didn't matter what day it was, after all. Days passed by, and then he was sure that weeks had gone by. He was still in the infirmary, and he still wasn't allowed to see Rowlesden. His days had a pattern, of a sort. He would be woken in the morning by Welling and one of his cohorts and taken to the WC. He would take care of the necessary, have a shower, and change clothes. They would take him back to bed and secure his hands again. His meals were brought to him and his hands freed so he could eat, but he never wanted to. Eating was irrelevant to his situation now and it was little more than an annoyance. He would take perhaps a token bite or two just to get them to leave him alone so he could think. In the afternoons he was taken to the pool to swim for some exercise, or taken on a walk outside. After that, he was taken back to the infirmary and put back to bed.

He didn't connect feeling tired all the time with how little he was eating. Yes, he'd gotten used to eating regularly and having substantial meals, but he doubted that any sort of change would make him feel tired. After all, he'd managed without eating a great deal before and there should be no problem doing so again. He just had to wait until his body was used to it.

Eating was still a distraction, though, due to Mrs. Burton. She began sending snacks and little tidbits to him at practically all hours of the day and late into the night, hoping he would eat. It didn't matter that he had three meals to fake his way through each day, the snacks and tidbits kept coming. After a week and a half of avoiding eating, Dr. Black confronted him about it.

"I understand you're not eating much," Dr. Black said that afternoon, visiting Sherlock in his room.

Sherlock shrugged, his fingers steepled in his "thinking" pose. "I haven't felt hungry very much."

"You should change that to 'at all,'" Dr. Black told him, fixing him with a look. "Mrs. Burton says that you've hardly touched your trays, let alone eaten anything."

"I eat a bite or two, most times," Sherlock said, not willing to play word and truth games at the moment. He was too deep in thought.

"See, that's a problem," Dr. Black said. "I don't even have to put you on a scale to know that you've lost weight."

"Not important," Sherlock said, his patience running thin. "I'm busy. Could we talk about this another time?"

"Now seems to be the perfect time," Dr. Black pressed.

"Your assessment of the situation is woefully inadequate."

For the first time in the whole time Sherlock had known him, Dr. Black looked ready to strangle him. Sherlock felt a smile starting and before Dr. Black could act on his impulse, Sherlock let his smile show and said, "Do no harm, doctor."

Dr. Black sighed. "How could your flatmate handle sharing living space with you? He's a doctor, isn't he? How could he stand seeing the way you treat yourself?"

"He learned to adapt," Sherlock said, shrugging again. "It was either that, or lose his mind. He chose the more sensible option."

Dr. Black did not visit the issue of eating again that week although he did make a point to weigh Sherlock several times.

Mrs. Burton was not so easy to dissuade, though, when it came to the issue of Sherlock's eating. She continued sending things to the infirmary several times a day, and she often brought them herself. He noticed that what she was sending quickly became invalid fare. There were hot cereals with milk at breakfast, soups and puddings at lunch, and for dinner, usually some kind of roast meat, potatoes, and more soup. She appeared even between meals, with things like rice pudding, barley water, toast with cheese, muffins, and other items that screamed "I'm trying to feed a sick person!"

He didn't eat much, which he could tell drove her and Dr. Black crazy. Halmsley wisely did not comment when he saw untouched trays, but Sherlock had a strong feeling that his lack of appetite was reported to all concerned parties, namely, Mrs. Burton. He did not care if Dr. Black or Rowlesden knew or not.

One day, Sherlock woke up with a raging headache. He spent the day in bed, sipping only at some water and juice since the thought of food effectively killed any and all fledgling appetite he had. For the first time since his attempt to kill Rowlesden, his mind had shut off and he wasn't able to think. He wasn't able to do anything but lie there.

He wasn't depressed; he knew what that felt like and this was nothing close. Instead, he felt...flat. As if he had no energy and could never have any ever again. That was...decidedly odd. Why did he feel that way? By the time he went to bed that night he still had the headache, but his chest had also started feeling odd and his throat was ticklish. He told himself that he was not getting sick. He did not have time to get sick. He had an escape and murder to plan, not necessarily in that order, and taking time out to be ill was just…not done.

He woke up several hours later, his fever raging, his throat on fire; his joints were aching and he was certain that there was something gravely wrong with him. The worst thing was that he was still restrained, but there was a call button built into the frame of his bed. He shifted until he could reach it and then pressed it, holding it down so he could be sure they heard it. A few seconds later he heard a click, a buzz, and then a voice.

"Hello?" It was Halmsley, and he sounded very sleepy.

"Halmsley?"

"Sherlock? You sound awful!"

"I think I need some help."

"I'll be right there."

Sherlock dropped back into his pillows and closed his eyes. When he opened them Halmsley and Dr. Black were there, along with Rowlesden. Dr. Black looked down his throat and looked in his ears, listened to his chest, and took his pulse.

"Pharyngitis, an ear infection, upper respiratory infection, bronchitis. It's likely that these illnesses were just waiting for him to get weaker so they could settle in. The ear infection and upper respiratory infection could have come from his sinuses if he has problems with allergies and the like, but the bronchitis and pharyngitis most likely came from the staff. I've treated more than one of them over the past two weeks for the same things," Dr. Black reported, draping his stethoscope around his neck. "With all of them together, he's got a formidable fever, so he'll be pretty miserable for the next few days."

"I'm miserable enough that I don't even want to kill Rowlesden right now," Sherlock joked, wincing at the pain in his throat. No one else laughed, but that wasn't important. What was important was how miserable he was feeling. Usually, if he were ill, he would slog on through whatever had to be done, but he didn't even have enough energy to pretend to slog. He was well and truly sick, and he had to put up with it and take the time to recuperate.

"This is your fault, you know," Dr. Black told him, writing several prescriptions and handing them to Rowlesden. "You weren't eating, you spent all your time brooding, and I heard that you swam the lake…"

"Only the once, and that was ages ago," Sherlock croaked. "Do I have to be here for the diatribe, or may I go back to sleep?"

"Not yet," Dr. Black said, looking thoroughly fed-up. "I'm going to give you a fever-reducer, but you need to have something to eat with it. Halmsley, would you…?"

"I'll bring something easy to swallow," Halmsley promised, heading for the door. A few minutes later he was back with some custard and a glass of milk.

Because he wanted to be able to take the medicine, Sherlock ate the custard and swallowed the pill with the milk. Dr. Black told him that it would work after about twenty minutes and that if he needed anything, he was to use the call button. Sherlock, too tired to say anything, merely nodded and wrapped up in his blanket. The three men trooped out and let him alone.

What followed were several days of unrelenting misery. His throat hurt, his fever showed him no mercy, and there were times when he coughed so hard he was certain he would crack a rib. A few times he wondered if he were doing penance for sins in a past life. He was certainly miserable enough for that to be it. He took his medicines, ate what was brought to him, drank a great deal of water, juice, and tea, and spent a lot of time asleep. He had no energy for anything else. When he went to the WC or showered, he had to be helped to each place since he wasn't steady on his feet. More than once his knees buckled due to fatigue. Even planning his escape and Rowlesden's murder had to be put on a back burner in his mind since he had no energy for even thinking. When asked, Dr. Black said that he slept so much and felt so weak because he was so ill.

"Your body's fighting off several illnesses at once," Dr. Black explained. "You have four separate infections to battle, and your body's using all of its reserves. When you're this sick, you have no energy to spare."

"How soon before I can get up?" Sherlock asked. He was rather tired of the infirmary and would have really liked to go back to his room.

"Days or perhaps up to a week, if then," Dr. Black told him, deadly serious. "If you try to push yourself before your body's ready, then you could have a relapse, and that would definitely endanger your health in the long term. There's very little margin for error in this. You need to take this as seriously as possible and do everything you can to make sure you recover fully. You can't rest too much, do you understand?"

"Well, that's bleak," Sherlock said. "If I promise to rest, may I go back to my room?"

Dr. Black appeared to think about it. "If you follow all of my instructions for the next three days, then you may go back to your room. Not before, though, and if after three days I feel that you're not ready to leave the infirmary, then you'll stay here. Do you understand?"

"Quite," Sherlock said morosely. "I'll follow your orders, doctor, just because I won't get well otherwise."

"To be sure, you won't. Stay in bed, eat your meals, take your medications, and get plenty of rest. Those are the only things you can do now."

"Fine, rub it in."

That actually won a smile from Dr. Black.

Sherlock was allowed to go back to his room after three days and two weeks after first falling ill he got a surprise when Jean-Claude appeared with all of his gear. Sherlock had been curled up on his bed reading and the last thing he'd expected was a visit from the hair stylist. "What's this?"

"Mr. Rowlesden asked me to work on you," Jean-Claude said, setting up his chair in the bathroom next to the sink. "He says you need your hair dyed and trimmed." He paused and patted the chair. "It won't take long."

Sherlock thought about it. Having his appearance changed...Rowlesden intended to take him out? Yes! "All right, then," Sherlock said, removing his jacket and taking a seat in the chair. "Have at it."

Jean-Claude was right about it not taking long. Within an hour and a half, his hair was trimmed smartly and was a bronze color that made his eyes stand out. He wondered what Irene would think of his appearance and then decided that it didn't matter.

"I was asked to pass along a message," Jean-Claude told him while he swept up the snips of hair from the floor. "Dr. Black would like to see you for a check up. He'll be waiting for you down in his office by now."

"Thanks," Sherlock said. "I'll head right down."

Dr. Black was waiting for him as promised, and a check-up was the work of only a few minutes.

"Well, it looks like you're back on your feet," Dr. Black said, making a note in the medical file he'd assembled on Sherlock. "Try to stay that way this time, all right? You can go outside now, but only for a short walk. Maybe a short ride if someone's with you. If you feel tired, make sure you rest."

Dr. Black's announcement was music to his ears, and he was outside in the gardens within minutes of being released.

Dr. Black had declared him recovered enough to go out for a short walk or ride, but since he could ride only if someone was with him, a ride just didn't sound appealing at that moment. Preferring to be alone, Sherlock wandered away from the house and headed toward the lake. He didn't have the energy to escape at the moment, which was a pity, but a few more days recuperating would help. He slipped into the boathouse, selected a boat, rowed out to the middle of the lake, and settled down in the bottom of the boat to relax. He was out of the house and he was determined to enjoy it for a while.

He did not mean to go to sleep, but when he felt himself starting to doze, he let himself drift off without a protest. It wasn't long before he was dreaming. He was striding the corridors of his mind palace, looking into rooms, examining old memories that he'd enjoyed before. At his side walked Redbeard, keeping him company. He circled around one place in his mind for ages, looking at everything but that place. He strolled picture galleries that held his favorite works of art, attended concerts of his most-beloved pieces, and visited parks and gardens and churches and stretches of wild land and woods where he'd felt most at peace. He visited old cases, stopped in at libraries, and walked London in his mind. Somehow, though, his mind palace kept taking him back to that one door, that door marked "John."

Sherlock crouched next to Redbeard and scratched the dog behind the ears. "I don't want to go in there, Redbeard."

Redbeard licked his nose and whined.

"I know I have to, but it's going to hurt," Sherlock said, his voice catching. "It's going to hurt more than anything."

Redbeard gave another sympathetic whine and wagged his tail. He walked to the door and looked back at Sherlock and whined.

Sherlock took a deep breath and went to the door. He hesitated before putting his hand on the knob, but at last he twisted the knob and pushed the door open. He stepped inside and there was John, standing there in his favorite jumper and old jeans.

"Hi, Sherlock."

Sherlock felt tears gathering in his eyes and his throat closed up. "John."

John put his hands in his pockets and looked at him with concern. "You okay?"

Sherlock shook his head and the tears started falling. "I miss you."

John smiled, shrugged and looked Sherlock directly in the eyes. "I'm not going anywhere, Sherlock. I'll always be right here."

"Your body was found in the Thames," Sherlock said, finally saying what he could not bear to say out loud. "You're dead! You're dead and I wasn't there to help you! How could I have left you alone like that?!"

"You're not thinking clearly," John said calmly. "I've already told you that I'm not going anywhere. You don't need to worry."

Sherlock stared at John, not understanding, but in the next second John held out his arms. Sherlock didn't move, but suddenly he found himself in John's arms, receiving the bear hug that John reserved for those most special to him.

"It's all right. You'll be okay."

"How is it all right, John?" Sherlock cried, holding onto his friend. "You're dead! I'm still with the person who kidnapped me and took me away from you! Why haven't I tried to escape? If I'd escaped, you'd still be alive!"

John's arms tightened, as if he were trying to tell Sherlock something. "You know a great deal about Rowlesden, Sherlock, and you had some tough choices to make. With all of Rowlesden's manipulation, it would be almost impossible for you to think clearly enough to make a successful plan. He's studied you even longer than you've studied him, so of course, he would know how to manipulate you. He knows just what to say and do to keep you under his control, the same way he's controlled Halmsley. It's likely that he has some way of controlling Mrs. Burton and Rupert and everyone else as well. As for not escaping before, you were waiting for a time when you could be sure to get away, that's all. Even if you tried to escape now, you wouldn't make it. You need to wait."

Sherlock felt his throat catch again. Hearing John's voice and understanding words was tearing him apart from the inside. The next thing he knew, he was sobbing, still holding on to the one person in the world he felt really understood him…and that person was dead. "Wait for what?"

John took a step back and smiled, that same old, familiar smile that Sherlock knew so well. It had always made him feel as if the world was not such a cold, dark place. "The west wind. Wait for the west wind, Sherlock. It's coming…and so am I."

"Mr. Holmes!"

Sherlock jerked awake so hard that the boat almost capsized. He grabbed hold of the sides of the boat and waited until it was still before he sat up. Welling and Meyers were standing on the bank, both of them staring at his boat. "What is it?"

"Mr. Rowlesden would like you to come back to the house."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and groaned. "Tell him I am disinclined to acquiesce with his request." John had been watching that movie and the words seemed absolutely perfect for the situation.

Since he was on the water, sound carried rather well. He heard Meyers say quietly, "I thought this nut didn't watch movies."

"It's not a choice, Mr. Holmes!" Welling shouted. "Someone is coming and Rowlesden wants you there to greet them when they arrive, so use your oars and paddle in!"

"What if I don't?" Sherlock wanted to know.

"Don't make me come out there and get you," Welling said, his voice menacing. "I can take only so much of you being a prat, you know."

"How quickly you stoop to insults! Have your powers of logic and argument been exhausted already?"

Welling looked up at the sky as if to ask the good Lord just what he had done to deserve the situation in which he found himself. "Last chance, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock chuckled under his breath, put the oars in the oarlocks, and rowed back to shore. Welling and Meyers stored the boat and oars for him and walked with him back to the house.

"So who's coming?" Sherlock asked as they reached the gardens.

"Someone important," Meyers said. "He's even got Halmsley dressed up."

"If you say it that way, people might think that Rowlesden picks out Halmsley's clothes."

Meyers snorted. "He does."

Sherlock stopped and stared for a moment before continuing to follow Rowlesden's resident gits. "What?" How...disturbing. Poor Halmsley.

"Every bit of clothing that Halsmley has in his closet was chosen by Rowlesden, same as yours," Welling confirmed. "I've signed for a lot of the packages that Rowlesden ordered, so I know what was in them. Shortly after a package arrived, Halmsley would have a couple of new outfits."

"Rowlesden takes it further though," Meyers added, sounding as if he were thoroughly enjoying himself. "When he first came here, if Rowlesden didn't like what Halmsley had on, he'd go make him change!"

"Why on earth would Rowlesden do that?"

"Have you been blind the entire time?" Meyers asked. "Rowlesden has it bad for Halmsley!"

"You two are trying to mess with me," Sherlock said flatly, unwilling to have Meyers snicker at Halmsley's expense. "I don't believe a word of it."

"Meyers, shut up. We'd be sacked if Rowlesden knew we were telling him this, and you know it." Welling stopped Sherlock by putting a hand on his shoulder. "Just so you don't get confused Mr. Holmes, I'll tell you the long and short of it. Rowlesden met Halmsley when he had a gallery showing. He fell hard for him and found out all he could about him. He was appalled at how poor Halmsley and his sister was, so Rowlesden invited Halmsley out to dinner one night, saying that he wanted to buy some of Halmsley's work. At dinner, Rowlesden said that he wanted to be...well, Halmsley's patron. He'd support Halmsley financially so he would have time to paint. He'd even have Halmsley live at his house in the country so he wouldn't have to worry about housing, but something about Rowlesden must have scared him. He said no and went home. When he got there, he found his sister there with Meyers and I and Ms. Lewis. His sister had just learned that she'd received a full scholarship to a school in France and she was all excited about going and begging Halmsley to let her go. Then Rowlesden arrived and Halmsley put it together right away. While his sister was busy talking to Ms. Lewis about the school, Rowlesden told Halmsley that all of his sister's school fees and living expenses would be taken care of if Halmsley went to live with him and they would be taken care of for as long as Halmsley stayed. Since then, Halmsley's been here, and Rowlesden's made no secret of the fact that he adores Halmsley and wants him to stay with him for the rest of his life. The clothes and things, going along with Halmsley pretending to be a butler and all...he indulges him. He loves him. That's all."

Sherlock stared, taking it all in. "Poor Halmsley."

"He's in clover, though," Meyers said. "No worries about money and all."

"There's more to life than money," Sherlock said, heading toward the house. "A great deal more."

When he got to the house, Rowlesden was out on the front steps with Halmsley, actually fixing Halmsley's collar. Halmsley was dressed in a pair of slacks, brown Italian leather shoes, and a blue dress shirt.

"Enough," Halmsley said with a long-suffering sigh, stepping back from Rowlesden. "It's fine."

Rowlesden looked past Halmsley and smiled when he spotted Holmes. "Ah, Mr. Holmes. Good to see you. I see Jean-Claude's been by to visit you."

Sherlock nodded and joined them on the steps. "You sent him, Rowlesden. Welling and Meyers told me that someone was coming that you wanted me to meet."

"Yes, a very nice young lady," Rowlesden said. "She'll be staying with us for three weeks, so I thought it best if you met her when she arrived."

"If you have a guest, won't you need a house steward?" Halmsley asked. "I should be wearing my uniform, you know."

"You're not to be a butler during the next three weeks, Halmsley," Rowlesden said. "Your uniforms have been moved from your room and they won't be returned until this young lady leaves. You're not to serve at table, nor are you to take part in any housework. Also, you will be called James for the whole of this young lady's stay. To her, you'll be just another guest. Do you understand?"

"Not really," Halmsley said as the sound of a car became audible. He turned and watched the car come out of the trees and head up the drive toward them. A window opened and a blonde head popped out, the hair being whipped by the wind. Halmsley stared and his face drained of color.

"Jamie!" the girl shrieked, spotting him. "Jamie! Jamie, surprise! It's me!" She put her hand out and waved.

Halmsley plastered a smile on his face and waved back before turning to glare at Rowlesden. "You brought my _sister_ here? You brought her _here_?! What were you thinking?!"

"She has a three-week break from school, so rather than send her somewhere, I brought her here," Rowlesden said. "As long as you don't let her know your true situation, she'll never realize it, Jamie. Now, be glad to see her. I can tell she's very glad to see you."

Halmsley smiled, sprinted down the stairs as soon as the car pulled up, and wrapped his sister in a bear hug while she chattered away at him a mile a minute. Sherlock could feel his heart breaking for Halmsley. No matter how much he smiled, Sherlock had a feeling that his fellow captive was screaming and wailing inside.


End file.
